CHAOS—It's Not Just For Mathematicians Anymore!
by Aunt Kitty
Summary: Fourth and final story of Dr. Donald Mallard and Cassandra Talmadge. Immediate continuation of "Life"-lots of drama and angst, and a couple of mysteries thrown in the mix. COMPLETE
1. Sometimes Life Will Drive You

**Summary:** Continuation of "TGIF," "OHIM" and "Life Is What Happens To You While You're Busy Making Other Plans." You can probably figure out what the heck is going on without reading the other parts but I've never been fond of jumping into a serial in the sixth reel; personally, I recommend playing catch-up. This is the fourth AND FINAL tale for Donald Mallard and Cassandra Talmadge.

**Note:** Mildly AU.

**Betas and cheerleaders:** As always, I owe **Tallis224** for giving me a nod, no or nudge, each where appropriate. Huge thank you to a couple of people IRL: Julie, my accountant, who took time DURING TAX SEASON to answer all manner of financial questions and Dixie, my longtime friend (yes, the same one who helped me create the Scrabble Game From Hell for "Enharmonic Interval"—as well as the dominoes variation in "Life") for the stories of being her late husband's study buddy.

And for all those who looked at the end of "Life" and said, "Wait! You're not going to leave it hanging there, are you?"… be careful what you ask for.

**Genre:** Drama/Minor Mystery (not _precisely_ a casefic...)

**Pairing:** Ducky/OFC

**Rating/Warnings:** T (mostly for language and references to adult situations; you've seen worse on prime time TV and heard worse on HBO, trust me)

**Spoilers:** none

**Time frame:** Summer 2007

**Disclaimer:** All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

**By the Way…:** The title and all chapter titles are taken from a button collection started by my best friend in college who passed away far too young. She "left it" to me when she died; I have only added a hundred or so to the box, and the number is well in the thousands. She was my co-author back in the days of printed fanzines and would have had a field day on FF. In addition to the titles, she makes a brief appearance in the story; that scene is lifted 100% from real life, only the bookseller's name has been changed. (Hi, Dave!)

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><p><strong>CHAOS—It's Not Just For Mathematicians Anymore!<strong>

by Aunt Kitty

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Sometimes Life Will Drive You Right To The Edge… And Then Floor It<strong>

_When I was eight, I almost became an only child. _

_My 'big' brother, Ray—fourteen and sure he'd live forever—went buddy-riding with his best friend, Jerry, on Jerry's brand-new-for-his-birthday motorbike. I'll start off by saying neither one of them were wearing __any__ protective gear (let alone helmets). I'll segue to that light rain earlier in the day raising oil on the road—and then make a left turn into a '58 Studebaker made of solid Detroit steel. And it really was a left turn Jerry was trying to negotiate when he skidded into that chunk of metal. Jerry rolled over the hood, shattered the windshield and a list of bones as long as his arm (one of the bones on the list, as well). Ray… Ray wasn't so lucky. He flew over the Studebaker with the greatest of ease, ass over teakettle for almost three rotations, according to the stunned kids skateboarding nearby. If he had made three __full__ rotations, he might have done better (probably landing on his butt). As it was, that last half flip landed him smack on his melon._

_I was in school when it happened. (The high schools all had a short day for some sort of staff meeting, thus the free time to get into trouble.) The neighbors called Dad at the bank and tracked down Mom (she was subbing at Roosevelt Junior High that week) but I got lost in the shuffle. Nobody was home when I streaked through the (back then) always-unlocked back door. Not unusual. I grabbed my skates and made it back to the playground at Marshall Elementary in a flash. I knew I had to be back by dinnertime—but that was __ages__ away._

_Of course (though I had no clue why) the place was still empty when I got home hours later. Dinnertime came and went. Feeling a bit disgruntled (not to mention hungry), I fixed my own darn dinner, figuring it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. Peanut butter, honey and banana on Wonder bread. Not something Mom would normally okay, but I couldn't cook at that age and figured what the hell (actually, what the __heck__), go for the gold. I dumped half a bag of Fritos on the plate and grabbed a Coke from the fridge. I plopped in front of the tube and watched "The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet" with nobody hogging the set or complaining because I wanted to watch Ricky Nelson instead of "The Virginian." (Daddy and Ray always outvoted me. Mom usually abstained; she was more often than not busy grading papers or doing something to keep the house running, so she didn't watch much TV.) I was in hog heaven._

_"Ozzie and Harriet" was followed by "The Patty Duke Show" (something Ray would sometimes agree to watch because he had a huge crush on Patty Duke). I wasn't keen on any of the singers on "Shindig!" so I swapped out to "The Beverly Hillbillies" and raided the cookie jar for dessert. (It was awfully tempting to dig into the cherry chocolate cake my mother had made that morning but I knew it was slated for the bake sale the next day—and I valued my life. But I put one hell of a dent in the chocolate chip cookie stash.)_

_It was 9:00 and I was starting to get more than a little edgy. The bizarreness of the situation was starting to hit me. My parents should have been home ages ago. Even if there had been a PTA meeting or dinner put on by the Elks or Lions or Warthogs or whatever group it was that Daddy belonged to and they had forgotten to mention it, they would have asked Gamma to come over for the evening… __and where the heck was Ray__? Fighting my nerves I switched from ABC to CBS to NBC, back and forth. I made a huge mistake of turning on NBC's Wednesday Night Movie—that Wednesday, it was "Midnight Lace." 8-year-old kid, alone in the house for the first time (well, alone late at night), watching sweet, innocent Doris Day being menaced by shapes in the mist and voices on the phone; it's a wonder I didn't end up on a shrink's couch. But I was so hooked into the movie, I couldn't bring myself to turn the TV off._

_My parents finally got home about half past ten. The thrill of being on my own had turned into being scared because I was allllll alooooone (and __still__ watching that blasted movie). Thus when they came in the front door, I didn't care if they grounded me for a month for my culinary digressions, I was glad as hell to no longer be the only beating heart in the house. "Where were you?" I cried, launching myself at my mother._

_Being young enough that I was stuck in 'me, first' mode, I didn't notice how upset my father seemed or that my mother looked as though she had been crying._

_It took Mom a minute or two to focus on me. "Oh, Cass." Her voice sounded far away, like she was on another planet. "I'm so sorry, you must be famished."_

"_I—I made a sandwich." No response. "Peanut butter and banana and honey."_

"_Oh. That's good."_

"_And—Fritos." She just smiled vaguely at me. "And a Coke and chocolate chip cookies." __That__ was sure to get noticed (not to mention the fact that it was heading toward eleven o'clock on a school night!)._

"_I'm sorry I wasn't here, baby."_

_My eyes grew wide. __**Who are you and what did you do with my mother?**__ I wanted to yell._

"_Cassie…" Daddy took my arm and walked me to the couch to sit down. "There's been an accident. Ray's been in an accident."_

_It couldn't be a __bad__ accident. He was my big brother. He was immortal. "What happened?"_

_He gave me an edited version of Ray and Jerry's accident. (I discovered the whole truth years later.) He spoke in the kind of Mary Poppins voice parents use when they're trying not to scare the crap out of the kids. One thing he didn't mention was my brother was in a coma._

_For over a month, we had a weird rhythm. I went to school, Dad went to work, Mom called the district office. If she had an assignment for sub duty, she went to work. If not, she went to the hospital. If she went to work, she spent her afternoon at home getting dinner ready, going over my homework and grading papers and waiting for my grandmother to arrive. Once Gamma was there, Mom and Daddy went back to the hospital for a few hours to be with Ray. Nobody made a big deal about anything, so I didn't realize Ray was sitting by Death's door, twiddling his thumbs._

_Years later, I asked Mom about that fall. She looked at me, puzzled. "You—__do__—remember Ray's accident?" I asked, worried which of us was crazy._

"_Of course I do." She frowned. "I remember being at the hospital constantly, scared to death…"_

"_I didn't notice at the time because I was a selfish little brat, but you did an amazing job, Mom. You never fell apart. You had a hot dinner on the table every night, the laundry was always done, the house was spotless, and you never once said, 'I can't handle this.' If Gamma hadn't been there to watch me every night, I probably wouldn't have noticed the difference. How did you keep it together like that?"_

"_I honestly don't remember that time. I know the meals got cooked, the laundry got washed—I'm sure Mother did a lot more that just stay with you in the evening. I just don't remember the details. I guess… you just make it work."_

_(This was long before "Project Runway" was even conceived. The first time I heard Tim Gunn say that, I laughed until I cried.)_

"_I know life went on around Ray being in the hospital. Things were done that needed to be done. But…I feel as though I sleepwalked through that whole season."_

_I didn't really understand what she meant. Even during hell week—when I was under suspicion for having killed my ex-lover in an alcoholic fog—I noted every moment of that week in excruciating detail. (Okay. Except for the alcoholic fog part.) I just don't do fugue states._

_Oh, yeah?_

_/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / _

I stared at the plastic stick in my hand, uncomprehending.

_There must be some mistake. I can't be pregnant._ (Wanna bet?) _I'm fifty-one, for god's sake._ (That little fact doesn't seem to be changing the color stripe, bubbe.) I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath. And another. And another. I opened my eyes and looked cautiously at the wand again.

Yep. Still blue.

I made my way to the living room in a daze and sank onto the couch.

_Pregnant._

_Me._

_Me. I. Pregnant. Knocked up._

I dropped my face into my hands. _Oh, my god. How the hell am I going to tell Ducky?_

/ / /

"Rab—" I stopped myself in mid-word and stared at the check in my hand. Check. Personal check. Signed by a Lisa McKenzie for $32.64.

"Is there a problem?"

I smiled at the young woman in front of me (presumably Ms. McKenzie). "No. Sorry. My train of thought just got derailed."

"It's Monday," she laughed. She took her bag (one of the reusable ones we sell for the princely sum of a buck, with _**Groceries? Sure, but I really need it for books.**_ stenciled on one side), waved cheerily and left.

Monday. It's still Monday. Good. I glanced at the clock: 2:45.

"—order?"

I blinked and looked to my left. "Hunh?"

"Jeez, Sandy, where are you?" Valerie stared at me, clearly concerned.

I managed a smile. "Front counter?"

"Only about ten per cent of you," she said, still frowning. "I was asking if you had finished the Atoz order. I have some stuff to add to it."

Still in a daze, I pulled the catalogue toward me. Finished? Hell, I hadn't even started it. "No. No, I'm not done yet."

"You've been in a fog since you got here. Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Just—just thinking about ten things at once and only room for five in the brain."

She still gave me a gimlet eye. "If you say so… I'll bring you my list in a sec."

"Take your time…" Everything was… removed. I felt like I was three seconds behind everyone and everything else, and had the eerie sensation of being in a fishbowl. I was sure that if I reached out, my fingers would stub against a glass wall. Sleepwalking, like Mom had during the fall of '64…

I forced myself to look through the catalogue, trying to get my thoughts on an even path.

Snap on shelf tags, priced per two dozen. _How the hell did I get here? Well, obviously, I drove. Did I mow anyone down or nick a fire hydrant on the way?_

Plastic topic dividers, priced per dozen. _Did the rug guys show up? Yeah, yeah, they did; carpets are clean, furniture catawampus and sitting on disks, area rugs will be back in the morning. _

Filters for the coffee machine (nobody else on the planet carries them any more), priced per box of fifty. _Oh, god, I can __not__ be pregnant._

Perforated cardstock for bookmarks, priced per ream. _Maybe it was a false positive?_

Perforated cardstock for reader program punch cards for the schools, priced per ream_. That's it. It was a false positive. Do it again tomorrow. _

Boxes of suckers for the charity tree on the counter—Charms, Unicorns and Astro Pops, priced per three dozen in a box. (Atoz rocks. Costco, Sam's and BJ's have the mundane stuff, Office Max, Office Depot and Staples have the mundane office stuff—but Atoz (so named because they have everything "from a to z") has a little bit of everything, including stuff that hasn't (supposedly) been manufactured in years. I think the owner has a time machine in his warehouse.) _You can do this. One day at a time._

Dymo labelmaker tape rolls, priced per box of six (assorted). _Is this fair to Ducky? Fair to me?_

Double-track Rolodex cards, priced per box of one hundred. _Fair to the maybe-baby?_

All the while, a metronome in the back of my mind kept time. _Preg_-nant. _Preg_-nant. _I_ am _preg_-nant.

"Is there a holiday coming up?" I called out, trying to silence the tick-tock. "A party we need stuff for?"

"Labor Day?" Valerie yelled back.

I groaned faintly. _Labor_ Day? Jeez. "So, in other words, Halloween?"

"Yeah, Halloween."

Halloween. Ducky and I started dating Halloween a year ago.

And here I am, a year later—

Not going there. Halloween we could handle with OTC, USA, BulkToys and the usual. "Oh! Hey! Cool!"

"What?"

"Atoz has a soda section now! Oh, Delaware Punch! I haven't had that since I was a kid!"

"Were the dinosaurs really that big?"

I turned and glared toward Valerie's office, even though I knew she couldn't see me. "God'll get you for that," I said in a decent Maude imitation. I ticked off Delaware Punch, Cactus Cooler, White Rock Cream Soda, Hires Root Beer—boy, it's a good thing Abby took on the end room as a project and put up about ten miles of shelving. Is soda safe while you're…

I grabbed the phone and punched a number I knew by heart.

"Autopsy, Abby Sciuto speaking!"

I couldn't help but laugh. That girl has levels of perky nobody else can mine. "Hey, Abby, it's Sandy."

"Sandy!" she squealed. I heard a faint, "Cassandra?" Good; Ducky was there. "Ducky's kind of, um, messy right now… hang on, he's ditching his gloves…"

I almost yakked at the mental image.

"Shoo," Ducky scolded. Abby's giggles faded away. "What a lovely surprise. I hadn't expected to hear from you until Wednesday."

Despite the _wheeee!_ roller coaster ride my mind was on (not to mention my blood pressure and hormones), I smiled at the sound of his voice. True positive? False positive? We'd muddle through. _Make it work_… "Well… I got a lot of work done last night." (True.) "And a lot this morning." (Also true, now that I was able to recall it.) "And since Mother has all of the girls in residence for the next couple of days… I thought you might like to come over to dinner tomorrow…?"

"Not tonight?" He sounded _so_ sad.

"All the furniture is shoved around. I had the carpets cleaned. I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."

"Why don't you just come home to Reston?"

"The carpet cleaners will be back in the morning to put things back to rights. Seven a.m." Plus there was no way in hell I was going to take a pregnancy test with anyone else in the house. (No sense in giving both of us heart attacks if the test this morning had been a false positive. I was even glad Foot was at Ducky's (Foot can be a dreadful blabbermouth).)

"Oh. In that case—tomorrow would be lovely."

"I'll fix something special. And we can work on the floor plan for where to put what we're keeping of my stuff and what needs to go away."

"You're not putting it into storage?" he asked in surprise.

"Well… we can discuss it…" Not a lot of my stuff would merge with his. And if I put it in storage—that would be sort of like thinking the marriage _might_ not succeed and I should keep my furniture 'just in case.' Sort of a property pre-nup.

"I wouldn't mind a new style in the house," he confessed.

"We'll make a list. Or play Go Fish and whatever pieces have the most pairs, we keep."

"Or chuck it all and start afresh?"

I stared at the phone. "You win the lottery and forget to tell me?" I know he's got money in the bank, even though I've never looked at his checkbook. But, jeez…

"Much as I love antiques—and there are a few I'd like to keep… such as Mother…"

I burst out laughing. "You are _so_ bad!"

"You _don't_ want to keep her? I wonder how much she'd fetch at a yard sale…"

"Ducky!"

"We'll hash over the furniture list tomorrow. Shall I plan to stay the night?" he asked, mock coy.

_If you pass out when you hear the news, it may be a moot point._ "I'd like you to," I said in a similar tone.

"With summer school out as of Wednesday and camp not yet started, the girls will be staying most of the week. Charlotte, for certain," he laughed. "She came right out and asked last night. Before either Lily or Evelyn could scold her, she was huddled with Mother and they were making plans left and right."

"Thick as thieves." _Hmm. Imagine having a kid like Charlie…_

"And Suzy was encouraging them. I'm sure any one of the three adults would happily stay with Mother and Charlotte tomorrow night."

"Probably all of them. Double the house insurance coverage—just in case_." Imagine having a kid like Evelyn—a self-confessed holy terror. I wonder if Suzy does duty as a nanny, too…_

"Oh, I forgot to mention—Lily got a call from the camp, they've had some sort of problem at the site. They've offered her either a cancellation with a full refund, or a half refund and move the session back two weeks. So Charlotte will be leaving this coming Monday and her farewell party is _this_ Saturday."

"I thought we were going out someplace special this Saturday. You wouldn't even tell me where it is."

"I'm sorry, my dear, I must not have been clear." It never would occur to him that I heard things wrong; no, _he_ was the one to make the error. "It's the following Saturday that I intend to whisk you away for the evening. And Suzy has already agreed to stay the evening with Mother."

"Can we just skip the middleman and hire her directly? There's room in back, we could build a guesthouse for her!"

"A marvelous idea, in my opinion." He cleared his throat. "So. Now that various crises are behind us…"

Silence. "Mmh?" I prompted.

"Perhaps we could discuss…?"

More silence. He was clearly waiting for me to fill in the blank. "Uh—furniture?"

"Already on our list."

I wracked my brain. Nothing. Well, nothing he knew about yet, anyway.

Ducky hummed softly. It took me a minute to recognize the _bum-bum-ba-bumm… bum-BUM-ba-bumm…_

"Oh," I laughed weakly. "Wedding."

"I'm not trying to pressure you," he quickly reassured me. (Considering that the last time we discussed the topic, I all but fainted in his arms from sheer panic, darn tootin' he wasn't pressuring me.) "I just thought it might be helpful to start making a list… or two…"

_Oh, Ducky…_ "Yes," I said firmly. "We'll start making lists." Wedding lists. Furniture lists. Baby name lists. (Shiver.) "And I'll start raiding the store for books on throwing the perfect wedding." _And pregnancy manuals._ I instinctively placed a hand over my stomach. (Big shiver.)

_Make it work. We'll make it work._

"Anything I can bring tomorrow? What time should I be there?"

"Sixish? And just your gorgeous self."

"Oh, you do the most wonderful things for this old man's ego."

_If I fathered a child now, I would be eighty or thereabouts when that child learned to drive, and I don't think those two demographics should be in a vehicle with a learner's permit between them._

"You're not old!" I heard a panicked snap in my voice and quickly brought forth a laugh. "Remember what Indiana Jones said—"

"It's not the years, it's the mileage," he finished with his own laugh.

"Ducky—" My voice left me and I clutched the receiver with both hands. "I love you," I finally managed.

"And _I_ love _you_." It wasn't the perfunctory, automatic response. He was thinking about the words he was saying.

"Tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow."

/ / /

It was almost six when John Mulder called. "Got your message from yesterday. Dana and I just got back from that retirement home—"

"Dana?"

"My photographer—"

I burst out laughing. "Oh, my god! Lily said they found you a photographer named Scully—they actually found one named _Dana_ Scully?"

He chuckled in response. "Nah, her real name is Stefani. But she calls me Fox, I call her Dana and we get X-files and alien crap every Christmas at the office party. So. The retirement home. Neoma Keithley."

"Whatcha got?" Valerie was at the front counter; I was in my office, alternately doing paperwork and eating leftovers from our lunch the day before.

"Only one Neoma Keithley in the tri-state area; not surprising, it's an unusual name. She's a subscriber to the paper, both paper edition and internet alerts. 76, widowed for eleven years, late husband was a firefighter, died from liver cancer. She has two dogs, Lulu and Pickles. Collects Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, books and stuff. Loves to bake. Gardening nut. Favorite food is Italian. Goes to Atlantic City two or three times a year to play slots. Member of All Saints Presbyterian Church. One child, two grandkids."

I stared at my phone with a bit of unease. "How the heck did you get all that info?"

"Well, as I said, she's a subscriber. All sorts of information in our files. Used for our demographics and target marketing. And there's all sorts of stuff on the web; she even has a Facebook page."

"Okay," I said slowly. "I am getting just a little paranoid, now."

"I advise you don't ever watch _The Net_. Or read _The Handmaid's Tale._"

"Too late. On both counts."

"Shall I continue?"

"Sure."

"Vulunteers part-time at the All Saints Thrift Store and—ta-da—is a retired RN."

I jumped on that. "Oh, my god! Someone must have stolen her identity and they're impersonating her because, believe me, no way was the Neoma Keithley I met anywhere close to her seventies."

There was a faint snort from the receiver. "Could _you_ pull off pretending to be an RN? I know I couldn't. First time I have to give someone a shot—hell, just read a doctor's instructions—I'd be shown up."

I slumped back in my chair. "Oh. Good point. Hard to fake specialized training."

"Plus, when you flash a license that shows you graduated college fifteen or twenty years before you were even born, don't you think someone wouldn't raise an eyebrow?"

I sighed. "Good point. Again."

"So. I called No Place Like Home—god, I need an insulin shot over that name—told them we were thinking of doing a piece on the _good_ retirement homes, as opposed to an exposé of the 'we beat grandpa daily' type of places you usually hear about. The director was, to say the least, thrilled. Got brochures on the place, we did the tour, spent, jeez, three hours there. I've gotta tell you—" I held my breath. "It's pretty impressive."

I was almost disappointed. "It is?"

"Yeah. It's owned by a Tokyo-based consortium—very big on treating the elderly well—it's one of ten or fifteen facilities they've got out here in the tri-state, plus Delaware. Nice, bright, clean—we actually did an article on some of the dumps they have for the elderly, I'd kill someone before putting them in a place like that. But this place? Dorky name, great place. The residents seem happy, they have good staff, the place is clean, doesn't smell like—"

"Got it." I cut him off before he could ruin my appetite.

"I'm not joking, the place is like a five-star hotel. You need to be in Dunn and Bradstreet to walk in the door." I laughed. "Not far off. When we got there, there was this nice old guy applying—they have a waiting list, by the way—and part of the application is they run a credit check. Gotta make sure you can afford the place. I don't think they have poverty scholarships available."

"Yeah, they aren't cheap. Even the crappy ones."

"Listen, Dana took a ton of pictures. I can stop by tomorrow afternoon, show 'em to you, see if anyone rings a bell? There are a lot of women who sound like the Neoma you were describing, maybe she works there?"

"Okay, sure. I'll be home tomorrow, though—you mind driving to Silver Spring?"

"No problemo. What's your address?"

"8714 Blue Spruce Circle. Cross street is Military Court. Brick, white shutters, split-level ranch."

"Got it. What time?"

Ducky would be there about six… "Two?"

"Works for me. See you then."

I wolfed down the rest of my leftovers and went shopping in the store. _Miss Manners' Guide to a Perfect Wedding. Do-it-Yourself Wedding Planner. Cheap Chic: Weddings on a Budget._ The shelf next to WEDDINGS was, appropriately, PREGNANCY AND CHILDBIRTH. _What to Expect When You're Expecting. _(Popular book. We sell at least two a month.) _Popular Baby Names. Unique and Euphonious: Unusual Baby Names—Let Your Child Stand OUT From the Crowd!_ (After what Chanda showed me in her yearbook, I was going to stick to relatively 'normal' names.)

"What'cha got?"

"Wedding books." I slipped the _Expecting_ book under the stack. "Gotta get started."

Valerie grinned. "I can't _wait_ for you to go all Bridezilla."

"Yeah. Right. Do I look like the Bridezilla type?" I snorted.

"You never know," she laughed, heading back to the front counter.

I sighed. _Better __**Bridezilla**__ than __**Mommie**__**Dearest**__._

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><p>-1-<p> 


	2. Cleverly Disguised As A Responsible

**Chapter Two: Cleverly Disguised As A Responsible Adult**

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><p>I'm sure Tri-State Steam-Kleen was actually quite fast in rearranging my furniture and putting the nice, clean area rugs back in place. Any other time I would have admired their speed record, but I knew there was a pregnancy test with my name on it in the bathroom and I was aching to take it.<p>

Invoice signed, workers tipped and thanked (they had done a LOT of furniture moving), I dashed for the bathroom and tore off plastic wrapping like a madwoman. (Not far off.) I resisted the temptation to stand there and stare (a watched pot never boils; does a watched pregnancy test never change color?); instead I went to the computer and started making a list of all of my furniture and what I could remember from Ducky's house. As the lists grew like weeds, I realized Ducky might have a good idea—chuck it all and start over. There were actually some things neither of us had that would be nice to add; for example, I'd seen a large coffee table (plenty of room for dominoes or other games) with big, deep storage drawers—but the style didn't go with either of our collection of furniture. I started another column labeled **PURCHASE?**

I made my way cautiously back to the bathroom (what was I afraid of, scaring the test?) and picked up a test wand. With a lack of surprise, I took in the result and looked at the bathroom counter.

Well.

Well, well, well.

Better add _crib_ on that **PURCHASE?** list.

/ / /

I washed and sealed half of the tile in the kitchen and worked in the north half doing prep work for dinner while the south half dried. I had pulled out a copy of Dianne Mott Davidson's _Last Suppers_ the night before and was working at adapting one of the recipes for our dinner that night. Mind only half on the task at hand, I read through the recipe again, pouring myself a glass of wine without even looking_. Boy, do I need a drink._ I was just about to take a sip when something in my brain screamed, "STOP!" I stopped. I stared at the glass in near horror and all but threw it on the counter.

Ack!No! No drink! Pregnant! No wine! Bad, bad, bad!

Caffeine—is it good? Bad? The news seemed to change every year. I don't smoke—but I did, periodically, though not for almost a year. How long does that stay in your system? Was almost a year long enough? Oh, god, the people I walked past on the street—second-hand smoke?

_Oh, come on. Get a grip._ _Mom was a smoker back in the 40s and 50s and 60s; nobody thought anything of a martini or two at dinner. Ray and I both turned out relatively okay._

_Fetal alcohol syndrome_, something in my head whispered.

"Oh, shut _up_," I said aloud, pouring the wine back into the bottle. I popped the tab on a can of V-8 and went back to the recipe.

So. Do I tell him before dinner and ruin his appetite… or after and make him throw up?

I sighed. _I'm way too old for this…_

/ / /

Chicken marinating happily in the fridge, north half of the kitchen floor now scrubbed, sealed and drying, I parked myself in Gamma's old, battered, _very_ well-used but still incredibly sturdy rocking chair and let my mind wander as I waited for "Fox" Mulder to appear.

I stared at the accumulation of stuff around the house, mementoes from my grandparents, from my childhood, trips abroad, whatnots from conventions, fifty years' worth of… stuff. (Eighty, if you were picky; Pappi's ashtray (now the stand for a candle) was from somewhere around 1930.) Life. Stuff I'd collected throughout my life. Every so often, life had thrown me a curve ball and I had run around and whined hysterically, "This is _not_ the life I planned!"

No, this was not the life I planned.

_Fight or flight.  
>Survival mode.<em>  
><em>Make it work.<br>__When the going gets tough, the tough… go shopping?_

A picture on the mantle caught my eye, Ray and me with a hundred or so unnamed hippies at Woodstock, and I thought about the accident so many years ago. Day by day. Sometimes you just do… what you gotta do.

(Do I even remember how to change a diaper?)

The clock above the computer ticked off seconds, the clicks like tiny explosions in the silence. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.  
><em>Preg<em>-nant.  
>Tick-tock.<br>_Preg_-nant.

My hands started to shake. I felt hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. Tick-tock. Hot-cold. Tick-tock. Preg-nant. I pulled my sweater-coat from the back of the rocker and slipped it on. (It was a gift from Auntie Miriam. It's actually quite pretty, the most gorgeous shade of blue-violet with pansies embroidered all over it. It's also so large that Ducky and I can cuddle in it together and still make the buttons meet the buttonholes. Auntie Miriam is enthusiastic—just not accurate all the time.) I curled up in the chair and leaned against the spindle back.

Even when I was young and foolish, I never ran into an oh-god-I'm-late month. Considering how blissfully casual we were back then, I was either extraordinarily lucky or my former lovers had all been firing blanks. Here I was, starting my second half century on the planet, my reproductive machinery starting to slow down, Ducky and I were always careful—and _now_ I get hit with 'surprise!'

I snorted faintly and shook my head. _Thus are statistics and failure rates created._

The doorbell rang and I shuffled to the hallway and opened the front door. Lily never mention that John Mulder is a long, tall drink o' water. I had to crane my neck back to look up at him—6'6" if he's an inch. Cute as a bug. No, bugs aren't cute. Cute as a bush of little pink daisies, there you go. And his press ID was smack in front of my face, so I knew he wasn't some marauding home invasion artist. "John Mulder?"

"You must be Sandy. You look just the way Lily described you."

I flicked an eyebrow up as I waved him inside. "Do I thank her? Or punch her lights out?"

"Oh, thank her," he said quickly.

"Want something to drink?"

"Sure, thanks."

"Soda, apple juice, grape juice, V-8, wine, water—" I scrabbled through my memory; the hard stuff was all at Ducky's. "Beer—Guinness, to be exact—" His eyes lit up. "Guinness, it is."

Guinness for him, grape juice for me, sloppy plate of cheese and crackers for us both. He spread out about five dozen photographs on the coffee table. "Wow." I picked up the first picture. The place looked like a frigging mansion. Modern castle, even. Acres of land, several buildings, tennis court, croquet court, putting green—"Holy crap, how expensive is this joint?"

"If you have to ask—"

'You can't afford it."

Dining hall (looked like a swank restaurant; I wasn't far off, he said the guests get a changed-daily menu with dozens of choices), game room, library… The bedrooms were suites, with a sitting room and bedroom; some of them had kitchenettes, there was a pet wing, residents were encouraged to bring furniture from home…

"Okay, Ducky's mom is still fine at home—but if she did need to go somewhere, this place looks fantastic. Worth whatever they charge. And that's what's weird." I stopped my perusal of the pictures. "Yes, Mother doesn't have her own bank account any more. But Ducky could afford to have her stay there, I'm sure. If _someone_ can afford to pick up the tab, why would it matter who's paying for it—unless—" Charlie's offhand theory to Evvie—that they were killing off residents for their money—flashed through my mind. "Ohmygod." I dropped the pictures and held up my hands in a "wait, wait, listen" motion. "Maybe they're having the patients put their funds in a trust that pays the facility and when they die, the trust carries over to the facility, and they're bumping people off—"

John looked bemused. "That plot went out when _Ironside_ was still in first run. Besides—I don't think that's even legal."

"Pooh." I slumped back down and took a hit off my juice.

"Plus—nobody really sick is in that place." He shuffled through the photos and pointed to a far-off building. "Hospital the home maintains, owned by the same consortium. Anyone with heavy medical issues goes there. The hospital hasn't had deaths beyond what would be normal for a hospital catering to a geriatric population, the residence hasn't had many at all because, as I said, anyone with health issues gets transferred, and all of the autopsies—" He broke off as I cocked my head at him. "Well… yeah… Just because it's an old plot doesn't mean I didn't think of it, too. But—no. The deaths are perfectly normal, low in number. Nobody bumping off the old folks for their money, no angel of death picking them off in their sleep. It's just a nice, pricey retirement-slash-nursing home."

I growled under my breath. Something funky just _had_ to be going on there.

"That's the director. He's general director for the whole setup, but this is their primary facility, so his office is there. Martin Romero."

Mid-40s. Clothes a little too sharp, a little too expensive. Smile a little too practiced.

"Made me think of Harvey Bains."

My head jerked up and I burst out laughing. "You—you don't mean _Waiting For God_ Harvey Bains?" He nodded and grinned. "I _love_ that show! I want to be Diana Trent when I get old." (Some people would say I already _am_ Diana Trent, age notwithstanding.)

"Well, he's a little smoother than Harvey Bains—but just as smarmy, in my opinion. I left with a bad taste in my mouth."

"Does he have a 'wet flannel' dogsbody Jane, too?"

"Not quite that bad—but, yes, there was a rather meek little thing that followed him around when we were outside. Prettier than Jane. And he certainly spoke to her better. Of course, since he introduced her as his wife, it would be a good thing. Shelly Romero—there, that's her."

Even before I saw her, even before he pointed—I knew. I just knew. "That's Neoma Keithley. She called herself Neoma Keithley, anyway." I sighed. I folded an arm under my bust, propped my elbow on my hand and used the other hand to support my head. "Dammit… something has to be going on there. Why would she use someone else's name to get a gig as a nurse-companion? Why would she quit so suddenly? Why was she trying to get Mother to go to this joint—and then break off—also so suddenly?" I waved my hand dramatically. "Something stinks. And, dammit, I want to know what's going on. No, they're not beating grandpa every day, but something shady is going on, I just _know_ it. Not everyone has someone as buttinsky as me or a son like Ducky—they may not be hurting these people physically—" I looked at the pictures of downright happy people. "But I just know they're hurting them _somehow._"

"Well, it all looks peachy when you walk through." He snapped his fingers. "Hey. How about we get someone in as a spy? Talk to residents on the Q-T? Maybe Mrs. Mallard?"

"In her more cognizant moments—_maybe_. But she probably wouldn't remember why she's there or what she's supposed to remember. Or she'd say the wrong thing to the wrong person. Plus, if she ran into Shelly—"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. Hey, what about this Suzy Lily told me about—?"

"Suzy Bailey. She's Mother's, uh, sitter. Suzy would be great—but there's the chance that Shelly might have seen her at the agency—"

"Mmmh," he agreed. "Your mother?" he suggested halfheartedly.

"Well, she's the right age, 78, even though she looks a lot younger." _My mother is only fourteen years older than my fiancé. Oy._ "But 'Talmadge' isn't exactly 'Smith'—Shelly might link the name… How about your mother?"

He blushed faintly. "Um… my mother is about your age…"

_Ow_. "My grandparents are all gone… Too bad my crazy Auntie Miriam lives in New York. She'd be great."

John laughed. "For that matter, my grandmother would be perfect. She's a widow, rich as French pastry, just what they're looking for—my grandfather was one of the inventors of that white stuff you use to fix typing mistakes—"

I gave him a skeptical look. "Liquid Paper was invented by the mother of one of The Monkees. She whipped it up in her kitchen."

"No, no, before that—the little pieces of paper with white powder on them? It was called Ko-rec-tor, funny to have a product for correcting typos and your company name looks like it was spelled by the town illiterate. Whatever—Grandmother inherited a freaking fortune when he died. She's sharp as cheddar, brass balls that clang—" (I snorted.) "—would _love_ to play Woodward to our Bernstein—"

"Great, let's—"

"But—"

Crap. There's gotta be a 'but' in there. "'But' what?"

"She's pretty much homebound. She mostly gets around in one of those whizzy chairs around the house. But if she goes out, she gets tired quickly. She'd make it fifteen minutes, thirty, max. She'd be great to do internet research if we need any done," he offered hopefully.

I sighed. "My collection of little old ladies—or little old men—is pretty slim." Well, there _was_ Mr. Eller across the street from Ducky's… but Mother had him pretty spooked. Maybe Abby could talk one of the sisters into helping us? No; as I recall, nuns are pretty much anti-lying—even if the fibs are for a good cause. Abby. Hmm. "Y'know… little old ladies look a lot alike…"

"Yeah," he agreed cautiously.

"Does your grandmother have a license? Would she let you borrow it?"

"Not a license. She's got a state ID card and, yeah, she'd probably let me borrow it." The 'why?' was unspoken, but it was there.

"How soon could you get it?"

He smiled slowly. "She lives in Woodside. Wanna go meet her?"

"You bet." I grinned in response and leaped to my feet and threw my sweater on the rocker.

"You going to tell me what you have planned?" he teased.

"Once I have all my, uh, ducks in a row. Not before then." _Let's see, which Nancy Drew was it where she broke into the old folks home…?_

/ / /

Dinner had about fifteen minutes to go when I heard the front door open. I stared at my reflection in the back glass of my window box herb garden; the wavering rainbow version of myself looked scared to death. Pretty close to the truth.

"I'm home!"

"Kitchen!"

Tell him now? During dinner? After?

"Hullo, darling… mmh, something smells wonderful… as I didn't know the menu, I took a chance—" He held up a bottle of a Riesling we both particularly like.

"Oh, that would be—" _You can't have any!_ "—perfect," I finished weakly.

/ / /

By the end of dinner, Ducky was absolutely baffled. I had declined the wine, one he knew was one of my favorites, picked at the chicken in portobello mushroom caps and played with the fettucini more than I ate it. (He, on the other hand, raved over the food, went back for seconds on a number of things and was delighted to find that dessert was the infamous chocolate cake from the diner down the street.)

We sat curled up on the couch as we went through the lists I'd made, tossing comments back and forth. "No, no, I'm looking forward to the chance to get rid of that loveseat."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw an advertisement for a lovely sectional—"

"Okay, okay, sectionals, I like—you get options—"

"I know the table you're talking about, very attractive, very functional, would go nicely with this sectional couch I mentioned."

"The bookcases _here_, back to back, it gives the illusion of another room—"

"—break through the wall, make a master suite—"

"—_my_ washer and dryer are only a couple of years old—"

"—replace those stairs—"

"—sewing room—"

"—can't stand—"

"—blue—"

"—chintz, ugh—"

"—damned chandaliers—"

Sudden silence, and Ducky was staring at me, amused. "What did you just say?"

Oh, god—what _did_ I just say?" I tried to play back the last minutes in my head. "I don't know?" I confessed. (I was pretty sure I hadn't said, 'Honey, I'm pregnant'—he was far too calm.)

"I wasn't sure what you _meant_," he teased me. "That's why I asked. I mean no insult, dearest—but you're a little… scattered..."

I laughed weakly.

"I can't put my finger on it. But there's something—_different_—about you tonight."

_If he says I'm 'glowing,' I'm going to end up on the news tonight, 'local woman goes bananas, runs through town in hysterics, film at eleven.'_ "I heard from Fran," I blurted out.

He looked startled at the change of topic. "So did I. She's actually enjoying her trip."

"Mm-hmm. She says she feels like she's in a Hitchcock movie, keeps waiting for Jimmy Stewart to burst through the door." I was starting to have trouble breathing. _In. Out. In. Out. Calm down._ "Ducky?" My voice was a squeak.

"Yes?" His voice, on the other hand, was very cautious. Use care in approaching crazy people…

_Come on, two words. You can do it._ "I love you." Not a squeak, but very plaintive.

He smiled. "And I love you," he said reassuringly. He leaned over and kissed me.

"I'm pregnant." I said it before he could pull back, when he was close enough that almost all I could see were his eyes.

He stared at me for a long moment. "You're… pregnant?"

I managed a nod. _Oh, god, oh, god, please don't be mad._

"I admit, your list of symptoms… so… Evelyn convinced you?"

"No… _I_ convinced me."

"We've been very careful about protection," he said cautiously.

"Mile High Club?" I reminded him.

He smiled. And blushed. "Ah. Yes. Ahem. Well… before you jump to a conclusion, perhaps we should buy a test—"

I jumped up, ran to the bathroom, and was back in record time. Fingers cold and shaking, I handed him the first test.

He held it very gently, a funny look in his eyes. His smile was a little nervous. "This… _is_… a rather difinitive blue. It would appear conclusive. But—just to be sure—perhaps we should get another—"

I dropped the other test wands in his lap. All twelve of them.

He laughed. (I'm sure he couldn't help it.) "You certainly are thorough, my dear!"

"Blue plus. Three pink bars. Blue stripe." I laughed weakly. "The word 'yes.' Did you know that you can get pregnancy tests in multi-packs at Costco? Three different brands, they don't stock the really expensive one—" I waved the two with the solid blue stripe on them. I was babbling.

"There's something vaguely unsettling about that notion."

"Yeah, I know. The clerk gave me a really weird look—"

He looked from the tests in his lap to me and barked a short laugh. "I can well imagine."

"I told him it was a science fair project, he just said 'oh'—" I broke off. "Ducky?" I whispered.

He reached over and took one of my icy hands in both of his warm ones. "How are you feeling?" His voice was even gentler than his hands.

"Well—this explains why I'm crying like Niagra Falls, why I'm sick as a dog every other day…" I pointedly ignored the transient pain in my gut. _La-la-la-la-I can't hear you-la-la-la-la._

"Yes… but, actually… I meant—how do you _feel_?"

I took a steadying breath. "Scared." My voice was shaking. (So much for steadying breath.)

"I can understand. Do you—" He hesitated for a split second. "—want to have a child?"

It was one thing to whisper the question in your mind. It's another thing to hear it asked out loud.

Child.

Pregnancy, childbirth, baby, child.

Feeding, diapers, screaming, pediatricians, panic, worry, worry, _worry._ (Two neices, two nephews, I know the drill.) Toddler, terrible twos, preschool, grade school, high school, _HORMONES!_ 'Is this your grandmother?' 'No, doofus, my _mom._' College. (Holy crap, how expensive will college be in twenty years?)

It isn't so much do I want to have a child—but will I be a halfway decent mother? I had never doggedly wanted a child, figuring Ray and Barb had taken care of our family line quite nicely. But even though I hadn't pursued it gung ho, here the opportunity was presenting itself.

Yes?

Or no?

I stared into Ducky's beautiful, beautiful eyes, tonight a dark blue like the ocean after a summer storm, wise and loving. I might not be a great mother (it's one thing to babysit and hand 'em back; it's another to have them 24/7) but I was sure Ducky would be a great father.

But was this fair? To him? I'd be _70_ when this kid graduated high school. Ducky would be _83_. I tease him that he looks (and definitely acts—well, in some ways) younger—but at his age, most guys are looking at their retirement plan, not paternity leave.

And even though he had proposed weeks ago and we weren't hormonal teens looking at a shotgun-bearing parent and saying, 'oh, shit' over those damning sticks… I couldn't help the niggling fear that somewhere, deep down, he would feel forced, that at some point he'd feel trapped.

"Do _you_?" I finally managed.

He was silent for a long… _long_… time. "I… don't want you to feel pressured. In any way, any direction."

"Whatever we do, it will affect us _both_."

"Yes…" He stroked my hand, not quite as icy as it had been. "But you, more than I. By far."

51 and pregnant. A sentence I _never_ thought I'd hear (not applied to _me,_ anyway). And while the news regularly pops forth about Ms. So-and-So who had a kid at 51 or 58 or 75 or whatever, it was frequently—usually—with great medical intervention. _This_ was Mother Nature having a big ol' belly laugh at us. (Urk. Bad choice of words.) Let's be honest—eggs _do_ have a shelf life; the chance that I might sport a genetic 'oops' was a definite consideration. Plus there was that gut-wrenching gut wrench every so often—_la-la-la-la-I can't __**HEAR**__ you-la-la-la-la!_

Of course, we could end up with a kid like Charlie. Or Ellie. (Or Abby, LOL.) I stared into the eyes of my best friend, my confidant, my soulmate, my fiancé, my beloved Ducky. Hell… we could end up with a kid like _him_.

Ducky.

_His eyes. My hair._

A baby with Ducky.

_His gorgeous, patrician nose. My long, graceful (not to boast, but it's true) fingers._

Rearing a child with Ducky.

A mixed-up soup pot of our graces and talents, quirks and oddments (Ray's height would be nice, it was so unfair that my parents used up the whole allotment on one kid), creating a whole new, unique person.

Oh, Lordy. _His_ floppy hair, _my_ pug nose, _his_ big hands, _Ray's _clown shoe feet—oh, you poor kid!

"Yes," I finally said.

He took both of my hands in his, kissed them and held them to his chest. "Then we should get you to a doctor, post-haste." His smile was warm, but I'd seen a flash of worry in his eyes and knew he was thinking—_LA-LA-LA-LA-I CAN'T __**HEAR**__ YOU-LA-LA-LA-LA!_

"I have an appointment. Next week. I cancelled my GP appointment for this week and went straight for my OB/GYN." I don't know if there was a part of me that had already said yes—or there was a part that was thinking no. Either way, Dr. Lester's office opened at nine a.m. and I had been on the phone at nine-oh-one.

"Next week?" He looked extremely unhappy. "That's—"

"That's the earliest they could shoehorn me in. I could tell the receptionist was going _ah-ah-ah_—!" I goggled my eyes and made a 'freak out' face. "—when she saw my birth date and heard 'first pregnancy,' but I talked to Dr. Lester and _she_ didn't freak out. The pain seems to be subsiding, so she thinks it probably _is_ just a pulled muscle—if it weren't, she would have jammed me in at two a.m. if necessary."

"Yes, but—it's one thing to be academic and look at things neutrally, but, dammit, this is _you_ and _our child_ and I can't _be_ academic and neutral!" His fretful brow cleared and he gave me an enthusiastic, gosh-kids-let's-put-on-a-show!-hot-damn look. "I have a friend—"

"No."

"Georgetown, head of the obstetrics—"

"_No_."

"Darling, he's the top of—"

"No." I turned my hands around so that I was grasping his. "No. No. No. Sorry—but, _no_. No offense, honey, but… _no_. No colleague. No friend. No chum, no association buddy, no—_no_. If this were a cardiac problem or orthopedic or—or neurosurgery, fine. But it's hard enough to establish a relationship with your GYN, women like to go to the doctor they know and trust. Now, if she were to say, 'This is beyond my scope of training, I'm referring you to Dr. Whozits'—fine. But I want to start with the doctor I know. I promise—if she gives me so much as a furrowed brow, I'll do what's necessary, no quibbling."

He sighed deeply and managed a smile. "All right." He looked hesitant. "Would you prefer privacy, see her—ah—on your own, first—"

"Would you like to come with me?" I tried for a balance between earnest and—well, earnest and _something_. I didn't want him to feel browbeaten into going, but I did want him there.

"Of course." He didn't even hesitate.

"Good. Wednesday. Two o'clock."

"Two o'clock."

"Honey…?" He looked at me, ha, expectantly. "Could we keep this… private… for a while? I'm sure everything will be fine, I just remember one customer, she told everyone on the planet right at the beginning and…" My voice trailed off.

"She… lost the pregnancy," he said gently.

I nodded. "For months she ran into people at the store, at the market, they didn't mean to hurt her—" My eyes grew damp at the memory.

"I can imagine what happened." Ducky is one of the most empathetic people I know. His eyes looked anguished over someone he has never even met. He leaned closer and gave me a little kiss. "For now—it's our secret."

I smiled. "Our secret."

His eyes grew wide. "Oh. Cassandra. I've been so remiss."

I looked at him, puzzled. "How so?"

He smiled, a small, sweet smile that grew to fill the room. "Congratulations. To us both!"

/ / /

"Oh, let me get that!" Ducky took the baking dish from my hands.

"I've got it—"

"No, no, you sit back, take it easy—"

I laughed, bemused. "Ducky, I'm pregnant, not crippled! Not quite even two months—I'm really going to need help when I look like I'm carrying a beach ball under my t-shirt."_ Twins. Oh, god, I never even thought of __twins__! I wonder if they run in his family…_

"Well, it's my job to pamper and spoil you. No—my privilege and pleasure and joy." He reached up and put the dish on the shelf and turned back to me. He cupped my cheeks in his hands and kissed me lightly. "No more reaching, bending, stretching—"

"You know, nowadays they encourage pregnant women to exercise. They even have special classes for them."

He sighed, considering it. "Well… if your doctor agrees… But, until then—" He shooed me toward the living room. "Let me finish KP and I'll be right back."

"You know," I called out as he headed back, "if you keep acting like this at _your_ house, everyone will jump on it. Even Mother will probably figure it out!"

"Well, then, we shall bandage your arm. Or let it be known that your pulled abdominal muscle hasn't healed and needs rest. But you, my dear, are going to take it easy—" He had the rest of the dishes put away as he spoke and came back to stand by the couch. "—whether you like it or not." He ignored my rolling eyes. "Speaking of which—lie down." Puzzled, I did so. Now what? "No, no—other way." Facing north, not south? I gave him another look of confusion. "You're as stiff as a board. Been under stress much lately?" he half-teased half-diagnosed. "I was going to rub your shoulders, give you a nice massage…"

That sounded awfully good. I did a neat flip over, grabbing a C neck pillow as I turned.

"Shirt?" he prompted,

"What? I didn't get into the full service line?"

"When you put it that way…" He slowly slipped my t-shirt up, stroking my back as he went.

Hidden by the curve of the pillow, I licked my lips and swallowed hard. "Keep that up," I managed, "and I'll be tense in a whole different way."

With my cooperation, he maneuvered the shirt up and off. "Now, now," he teased, his voice a soft purr. "We can't have that…" Deft fingers unhooked my bra and removed it as well—then, to my slight surprise, he actually started massaging my back. I had kind of thought he was veering toward playful seduction but, no, he really meant it. And, oh, damn, did it feel good.

"Good heavens… I've walked on cement with more give," he murmured, thumbs digging in. I was willing to agree; it hurt, but it also felt great as the muscles started to unknot. After quite some time of silence, broken only by noises of contentment from me and tiny noises of effort from him, he said, "So… how long have you known?"

I was half-asleep from the great job he was doing on my back. "For sure… this morning. For _sort_ _of_ sure… yesterday morning."

"I'm surprised you didn't wait until you saw the doctor to tell me."

That kind of hurt. "Why would I wait?" I managed to keep the 'ouch' out of my voice.

He laughed. "I don't know… maybe afraid the surprise would cause a heart attack and it would be nice to have a second doctor on hand?"

_That_ made me laugh. "Mother will dance a damn jig on the roof when we tell her."

"No…" He patted my back to let me know he was through and leaned close. "She was always fonder of swing dancing than jigs."

/ / /

Is he really okay with this? It's not like we planned on having kids, not like we were trying… what happens a year from now, two years from now, five years from now…? Will he regret this decision, will he resent being forced into fatherhood at this time in his life? And even if he does, this is Ducky—he'd keep quiet and stand by to the bitter end, but have his growing anger inside—

Quarter past eleven. House quiet, except for—if you strain your ears—the tick of the clock in the living room. Perfect time for staying wide awake with a galloping case of the what if's.

_Even if he's okay with this, there's going to be this nagging thought in the back of his head—'if we didn't have Peanut we could do this, go there…' _(I found an internet site that showed gestational pictures, 7-8 weeks is about the size of a peanut, so I started thinking of it as Peanut; or I could be trendy and call it Edamame...)_ He'd never say it, never hurt me that way—but he still might feel it…_

I lay on my side, staring into the darkness. Despite Ducky's ready acceptance, his smiles and hugs and kisses, I still couldn't believe he was really on board with this sudden change. It was so abrupt, such a total one-eighty from what had been our plans and existence only a day or two ago. I was rattled to my core, I was unsettled, I was confused—

—I was _scared_.

I had spent the better part of fifty years saying, no, I don't want kids. Responses ranged from, 'I don't blame you' (friends who were having One Of Those Days with their own kids, where they would gladly sell the whole tribe for the scrap metal value of the mineral deposits in their bodies) to, 'Oh, you'll change your mind some day!' (same friends, the day the kids banded together to make their parents breakfast in bed—and it wasn't even Mothers' or Fathers' Day). I went through adamant statements, bad jokes, polite shrugs—and never, at any time, was I putting up a brave front. Poor Cassandra, alone in the world, no husband, no kids. (No worries, no ties…)

Now, here I was, saying, 'Yes, I'll be your wife' to the most wonderful man I could have never even imagined knowing. Saying, 'Um… yes?' to a much unplanned but maybe… sort of… starting to be welcome… very late in life baby.

I sighed quietly. This was _not_ the life I'd planned—but maybe we'd lump along well enough. I could hope, anyway.

There was a soft gurgle-glurp as Ducky turned over on the waterbed. Instead of going back to sleep, he spooned up against my back, dropping a kiss on my shoulder. I sighed again, a little more contentedly. He slipped an arm about me, hand resting on my stomach. "Can't sleep?" he murmured.

"Just letting my mind wander…"

"Mmmh…" We lay there for a bit, silent. Finally there was a soft, rueful chuckle against my back.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh… not _funny_… I was feeling a bit guilty."

That was a new one. "Guilty?"

"Oh… I was just thinking of the coming months—I know well enough the changes, the demands pregnancy will put on your body—I _do_ remember those classes and clinic duty, even though it's been a few years—but I couldn't help thinking…" His hand lightly stroked my stomach. "How wonderful it will be, watching you grow and change… feeling the baby move and kick… I can look at a textbook and break it down to elementary biology, but then I think of you… and I… of _our_ child… I can't help but be _awed_… and guilty."

"Guilty?" I tried not to laugh. I didn't want to ruin the sweet, sentimental glow that he'd created.

"Maybe selfish is the word. I can't wait for these months to pass, I'm going to absolutely revel in them—but _I'm_ not going to be the one—" The hand on my stomach gestured feebly.

"You're not going to be the one with stretch marks and swollen ankles and a sore back—" I filled in. Even if I hadn't read through much of _What to Expect_ I remembered Barbara's pregnancies. All four of them. (I got her a t-shirt reading _After the fifth month, tie-on shoes cease to be amusing._ Her response was, "You ain't just whistlin' Dixie.")

"Yes." He snuggled closer, and I could feel his smile against my shoulder. "And I shall be at the ready, with vitamin E cream to rub into your skin, Epsom salts to soak your feet and a long, relaxing foot massage, back rubs to relieve the strain…"

"I remember Barb complaining about not being able to sleep face down."

"We'll work on the back rubs. It _will_ take a bit of creativity."

I wriggled on the bed and turned around in his arms. The 'are you _really_ okay with this?' died on my lips. I've seen Ducky happy—many, many times—before. I've seen him delighted, pleased, thrilled… but never with the sparkle in his eye that I saw. (Hell, _he_ was the one glowing.) He was okay.

_We'd_ be okay.

* * *

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	3. Old Age And Treachery Will Overcome

**Chapter Three: Old Age And Treachery Will Overcome Youth And Skill**

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><p>Chanda's grandmother's house—no, now it was Chanda's—<em>Chanda's<em> house was an old, rambling place that was a hodge-podge mélange of styles, much like Lily's but a little less cohesive. The main part of the house was late Victorian; it even had a widow's walk, despite being quite a way from any body of water. The front lawn had a couple of old statues with faded paint and a couple of even older maple trees, big and healthy. _They probably look gorgeous in the fall._ The minivan in the driveway and the Prius behind it looked extremely incongruous.

The bell was an old-style pull bell that made me think of the Addams' family house (though it didn't pull out for a yard and then yank you back against the house). While I waited for someone to answer the door I looked around the front grounds. I could picture Charlie doing cartwheels and back springs across the length of the lawn; the trees were big enough and strong enough to support old-fashioned rope swings… _Maybe we'll end up with a kid like Lee-Lee or Ellie, a big reader…_

I broke off that thought with another. _Oh, come on. Think of your books. Think of __Ducky's__ books. The kid doesn't stand a chance._

The house had great insulation or soundproofing, because other than the faint peal of the bell, I heard nothing until Chanda opened the door. Then I heard _plenty._

The first noise was a child's voice, screaming, "That's not _fair_! That's not _fair_!" Second child's voice, just a keening, hiccoughing wail. Third was an adult's voice, female: "Chanda, really, now—"

And Chanda, snapping over her shoulder, "No, Mother, both of the girls have a time-out, and unless their bottoms are parked on those chairs for the _full time_, the clock is not running! Hi, Sandy, come on in. If you want to take them to the park and lunch, fine, but first their time-outs must be completed, _please_ come out of the hall!" Except for the comment to me, said in a normal voice, everything else was a tone of severe irritation and shot toward the hallway that ran past the main staircase.

I followed her into the foyer. Down the hallway I could see both girls sitting on small plastic chairs that decidedly did _not_ go with the house. Lee-Lee was holding onto her chair with both hands and squirming, still crying. Ellie had her arms folded and was drumming her heels on the floor. A woman about ten or fifteen years older than I stood nearby, wringing her hands.

"Mother, leave the girls alone! Eleanor, stop banging your heels on the floor. That is _not_ acceptable." Her tone was measured and firm. Ellie picked her feet up and slammed them smack down of the floor, glowering at her mother. But she stopped thumping her heels like the little drummer boy on speed.

Her face hidden from the kids, Chanda rolled her eyes expressively at me. She grabbed her mother's elbow and steered her away. "Chanda—" her mother said pleadingly.

"No, Mother. If you cannot respect my discipline choices, then you cannot be around the children. I can't force you to follow my rules when the girls are at your house, but at that point, _you_ will deal with the chaos." Her voice was low, but firm. "But here and—" She broke off. "Lee-Lee, your timeout is over, you may get up, now."

There was a scrape of plastic on wood, then slow steps down the hall. Still making snuffling noises, she stood in front of her mother, looking like an old-time convict minus the ball and chain. "I sorry I hit Ellie," she said around tiny 'hic's.'

Chanda squatted down to eye level. "I _am_ sorry," she gently corrected.

"I AM sorry I hit Ellie."

"You apology is accepted. What rule did you break?"

"Don't fight."

"Right." Chanda gave her a hug. "And remember, if you _do_ get a time-out, if you just sit down and you aren't popping up and down from your chair, the time out goes much faster." Lee-Lee nodded. "And when Ellie gets up, you need to apologize to her, too." Another nod. "Okay, scoot upstairs and get your backpack." She scooted.

Lee-Lee was still upstairs when her sister was released from prison. _That_ conversation was longer.

"It's not fair! _She_ hit _me_!"

"And _you_ hit her _back_."

"Yes!"

"So you both broke the 'no fighting' rule."

"But _she_ hit me _first_!"

And around and around they went. Chanda was _way_ calmer than I would have been, finally accepting Ellie's grudging apology and hugging her. By then her sister was downstairs; they apologized to each other, hugged, and Grandmother got the circus on the road.

Oh, my god, what if I dohave twins? Triplets! Oh, jeez, three kids, two parents, outnumbered and outgunned!

I drew a shaky breath. _I can't do this. I can't do this! I'm fifty-one, not twenty-one or thirty-one, I'm too old for this!_

"Boy, oh, boy," Chanda muttered. "There are some days… I should have stuck with gerbils."

I laughed weakly. _Am I crazy? I won't be able to do this! I didn't even like to baby-sit in high school._ "What happened?"

"I'm still not sure what precipitated the squabble, but Leigh Anne hauled off and slapped her sister. Before I could get over there, Ellie had popped her right back. Just a normal summer day in the Davis household," she said drily. "Oh, god, when does kindergarten stat?" she added plaintively.

"Not soon enough, I guess."

"And I'll probably have a fit when she _does_ go off to school," she laughed. "So. Come with me… You want the nickel tour, first?"

"Sure."

The house reminded me of Lily's on the inside, too—big, rambling, higgledy-piggledy and stuck together all catawampus. To be brutally frank, Lily's was in better shape; I think the house had declined with Chanda's grandmother. But it looked like it was still sound and well worth the effort to rehabilitate it. (It explained the stack of how-to and repair books she'd bought.) Like Ducky's, there was an attic upstairs and a basement down. Five bedrooms upstairs, two down; it looked like there had been more rooms upstairs and walls had been knocked out to change the configuration over the years. Back downstairs: study, living room, _ancient_ kitchen that was in the process of entering modern times. Very nice dining room (you could comfortably seat twenty). You could see the seams on the walls where the house had been expanded, the change from plasterboard to wood to brick—a little weird, but an odd charm.

"This place is _great_!" I said enthusiastically as we tramped around the back yard. "What's that?" I pointed off. "Mother-in-law cottage?"

Chanda looked uncomfortable. "That was the original garage. There are even two stalls from when it was the carriage house."

I'm sure my eyes lit up. "Cool!"

"Creepy," she countered. "I can't wait to convert it to something useful. And cheerful." Okay, it was a little rundown but not _that_ bad… She laughed at my confused look. "I always thought of that as my own haunted house."

"Really?"

"Mmm. My grandfather died, oh, way back when I was a kid. Gave a ride to a hitchhiker, they think, and he was robbed, left dead in the car. Shot."

"Oh, my god. I'm so sorry." I felt like a real jerk.

"I was a kid, not even Ellie's age. I didn't even realize what 'dead' meant until later. They towed his car back from the impound lot. Grandmother couldn't stand to see it—but she couldn't bear to get rid of it. Her brother or a neighbor or someone put it up on blocks. Until we went in, I don't think anyone had been in there since 1974."

"Holy cow. Spider heaven." I shivered. (I _hate_ spiders.)

"Yeah. Jerry cleared all the brush and trash from around the building. We're going to turn it into a crafts room or playhouse or… something. We're not sure, yet." She caught my glance at the building. "Wanna look?"

I hesitated about a nanosecond. "Sure." I may be scared of spiders but I'm a snoopy bitch.

I felt like a little kid peeking where I shouldn't. The windows were crusted with dirt inside and out. Jerry or Chanda (or both of them) had cleaned off some of the outside crud, but the putty holding the glass in was ancient; I'm sure they were worried that too much scrubbing would push the glass out of the frame.

But even with the dirt and what looked like parachute silk covering the car, I could see it was gorgeous. I got as close as I could to the glass without touching it. "Oh, my god! Your _grandfather_ drove _that_?"

"Yeah," she laughed.

"I'm sorry, I just can't put 'grandfather' and 'T-bird' in the same sentence." The nose of the car was right by the window; the make was unmistakable, despite the heavy shrouding.

"He was pretty young when he died." She cocked her head. "So was my grandmother, really, when you look at it. Seventy-six, I think."

_Ducky's going to be sixty-five this September… _I hugged myself against a sudden chill. _Yeah, and his mom is ninety-nine. Better gene pool._

"I know someone who would—" (Urk. Not 'kill!') "—love to take this off your hands—if you're selling," I quickly added.

"This someone would be willing to buy a car someone was murdered in?"

"Maybe." I don't work MCRT. Tony DiNozzio deals with murder on a regular basis, maybe it wouldn't freak him out.

She gave me a skeptical look, then glanced at my feet. "You've got closed-toed shoes on; want to go inside?"

Spiders. Lions and spiders and bears, oh, my! "Sure," I said recklessly.

The padlock on the door was brand new. "We had to cut the old one off, it was solid rust. Plus, we couldn't find the key. We want to keep the kids or any larger critters out until it's safe," she explained, pushing one door to the side. It rolled back with a grinding screech.

Musty, dusty, dirty. The two horse stalls had been turned into storage, wood shelving two and a half feet deep on all sides. All manner of paint cans, garden treatments, poisons and crap lined the shelves. Yeah, _perfect_ place for kids. "You're going to need the hazardous waste disposal number."

"Yep. Already called them."

The building was wired; old fluorescent shop lights were hung from the ceiling and big outlets dotted the walls, fat conduits running in all directions. Even with the car at the other end of the former carriage house, it was extremely anachronistic.

We picked our way through the dirt and debris. "You're right. This would make an awesome workroom. Plenty of room for that loom you want to build."

"_Re_build. It was my great-great aunt's. It's shoved in a corner in the attic. Jerry is _not_ looking forward to dragging it downstairs."

I cautiously poked around the car. The tires were gone; the poor car was up on blocks, looking so sad… "Why didn't anyone drive it? This is a _fabulous_ car."

"My uncle didn't want it… my mom didn't want it…"

Yeah… I can understand not wanting to drive the car your husband or father was murdered in. But hanging onto the car was just… kind of morbid. "I'd've taken it to the scrap yard and watched them turn it into a doorstop," I said half to myself.

"That's what I thought all those years… but I kinda like the car. Don't know that I want to _drive_ it—but I'm glad it wasn't flattened."

"If Tony doesn't want it… I'm sure he'll know someone who does."

We took the long way back to the house, Chanda pointing out the now-tamed rosebushes ("They were ready to take over D.C. Jerry called the whole mess Audrey. Every time we came outside, he'd say, 'Feed me, Seymour.' I cut them back before anything else because I was sick of hearing _Little Shop of Horrors_ every time I came outside."), the gazebo that was covered in ivy and something with the ignominious name 'blue potato bush' but sporting glorious purple blossoms, and the odd plot with light dirt in a sort of winding pattern and darker blobs in the holes.

"It was an herb garden in a Celtic knot pattern," Chanda explained. "The herbs were half wild and half dead; we just cleared it out and we'll probably do flowers in the knot pattern again. Nobody needs _that_ many herbs," she laughed.

"Yeah, that is a pretty big knot."

"Okay. On to the library!"

We were busy chatting as we walked back to the house (she laughed like crazy when I told her I was getting married, admired my ring and said she couldn't wait to meet Ducky); consequently, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going; thus, I slammed my foot into some sturdy piece of furniture just outside the edge of my peripheral vision.

"Ow! Shit!" I gasp-whimpered, hopping back.

"Oh, Sandy! I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes, did I break it?"

"Take your shoe off, I'll—"

"No, no, the table!"

"Not likely," she laughed ruefully. She twitched back the fringed cloth to reveal a waist-high safe.

My throbbing foot was forgotten. "What the hell is _that_? I mean, obviously it's a safe…"

"Yep. Also my grandfather's. It was too heavy to move, Grandmother was afraid to get rid of it because she didn't know what was in it, so she just covered it up."

Covered safe, covered car—a shrink could have a lot of fun with that. "Why didn't she just open it?"

"It was _Grandfather's_ safe. She didn't know the combination."

Simple question, simple answer. "Oh." I squatted down, admiring the curls and flourishes. This sucker was as old as the house and probably as heavy as the T-bird. "Aren't you curious about what's inside?"

"_Insanely_." She hunkered down next to me. "I made up all sorts of stories—my grandfather was a spy, there were secrets that would bring down a foreign power—or he was working on something that would replace gasoline—remember, this was during odd and even days."

"I remember," I said drily. Ray had an odd plate, I had an even one; we swapped gas once a twice a month because of gas rationing. During the second odd/even ration we both had odd plates—but my next-door neighbor had an even plate and so did Barb, so we all made do.

"Alas, Grandfather was neither an inventor nor a spy." She smiled a little sadly. "He was an accountant."

I was still fascinated with the safe. "You try his birth date?"

"Yep."

"Grandmother's birth date?"

"Yep."

"Anniversary?"

"Yep?"

"Kid's birthday?" I suggested desperately.

She looked surprised. "No. I don't think so." She reached forward and spun the dial. "Mom is November… fourteenth… nineteen… fifty…"

She's only _six_ years older than I am? Now I'm depressed.

She tried several versions—month, day, year; day, year, month; with the nineteen, without the nineteen. "Okay. Uncle Chris is 1948. Um… March—third? Yeah. March third." She spun the dial again and I admired the fact that she could pull her uncle's birthday out of her memory. I have a cheat sheet in my day runner—including _my_ birth date. (I actually forgot it once. Embarrassed? Beyond measure.)

"Nope."

"Grandkids?" I suggested with little hope.

:"I was the only one when he was alive… nope," she sighed, after trying her own birth date.

"You may have to get someone out to open it up. A pro," I said, standing up and reflexively dusting off my butt.

"I'll put it on my list," she laughed. "How's your toe?"

I wiggled my toes. "Seems okay. Books?" I followed her to the library, a room we had breezed past earlier. I stopped in the doorway, almost quivering. "Oh… _Wow_…" Built-in bookcases on every wall. Books of every shelf. Not _quite_ the library from _Beauty and the Beast_… but close.

"My grandmother was a teacher. Grandfather was a hobby engineer. Both were voracious readers. Neither of them ever parted with a book."

"Looks like nobody parted with a book in about a hundred and fifty years." Unfortunately, a lot of the older ones were falling apart. Damn.

"We are a 'book' family, that's for sure."

"You don't want to keep any of these?"

"Oh, we've already culled what we want."

There _were_ empty spots around the room. If the shelves had been packed (given there were random stacks of books in front and on top of the shelved books, I'm sure they had been), they had picked out at least eight or ten Xerox boxes full of books. "Um… you want me to cherry pick or just take it all?" There was a desperate note in my voice; even at a quarter a book, I was looking at ten or fifteen grand, easy, if I took it all. Maybe twenty. I couldn't afford all of these books, but, boy, did I want them. (There were a couple of hundred in the history section that Evvie would pee her pants over.)

"Please," she said earnestly. "Take them all. The family has gone through the books, we gathered them all into this room—"

"There were _more_ than this?"

"Oh, tons more. Attic, basement, new garage, all of the bedrooms…"

"You have a price?" I steeled myself.

"We were hoping… seven-fifty?"

I must not have heard her correctly. "Seven-fifty?"

"Seven?" she countered.

"You mean _seven hundred and fifty dollars_?" I said carefully.

"Yes?" she said hopefully.

Okay—a bargain was one thing; outright theft was another. "Chanda, surely you remember enough from working at the store that you know that's an insanely low-ball figure."

"Well, Jerry and I figure we have a few options. Yard sale—pass. We did that when we packed to move back here and we came 'this close' to a divorce. Donate to charity—some don't even take books, _we'd_ have to box them up, it's a hassle. Sell them to a bookseller—yeah, it's worth more, and if we were talking to someone else, heck, yeah, I'd ask for more. But this keeps it in the family, as it were, _you_ get a good deal, they get _out_ of _our_ hair, and everyone is happy."

Okay. But my conscience wouldn't let me rip her off. "Um… two thousand-five?" I was going to have to replace the heating in the house before winter; I might put up with the eccentricities of the system, but I couldn't expect a tenant to do so.

She gasped a little. "Really? That much?"

"Chanda, I should be arrested for highway robbery!"

"I'll take it, I'll take it," she laughed. I whipped out my checkbook and she clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, Jerry said not to go lower than five hundred. Wait 'til he hears _this_!"

Laughing, I called Evelyn and made arrangements to meet at Chanda's Sunday morning. "Six," I said weakly, counting Chanda's fingers. Packing books at six a.m. Whimper.

"Let me know if you ever get that safe open," I added as we hugged good-bye. "I'm curious as hell. Hey!" I snapped my fingers. "Was he in the service?"

Chanda thought for a minute. "Yeah. Marines, I think."

"Maybe his date or discharge? That would stick with a fellow."

She looked at me with mild sarcasm. "Like _I'd_ know _that_?"

I shrugged. "Research?" I suggested.

"In my copious spare time," she said wryly.

I gave her thumbs up. "I have faith in you, kid." I hopped into the van.

/ / /

"So! How is the mother-to-be?"

At Abby's voice I turned alternately red and white, gasped, choked and managed a squeaked, "_What?_" _So much for secrets!_

"I said," she said slowly, "how is the bride-to-be?"

Oh. _Bride._ My guilty conscience had swapped words. "Clearly scatterbrained," I said with a weak laugh.

"So, when is the big day?"

"When we know—you'll know."

"Halloween would make a cool day for a wedding!" Her eyes sparkled. She perched on the corner of the counter.

"Do you see Ducky having a Halloween wedding?"

"Yeah! Duckman has weird and wonderful tastes. Not that you're weird and wonderful—I mean, you're _wonderful_, you're not _weird_—"

Once again, I wondered if they had dated in the past. (Once again, I declined to ask.) "Okay, can you see his _mother_ at a Halloween wedding?"

She pursed her lips. "Hmm. Good point."

"So. What brings you into the book oasis in the middle of the week? And so early?" It was just barely three-thirty. "You get canned? Or they send everyone home early?"

"Asked for it. Got it. Geoffster and I are celebrating the end of finals." Her eyes got a gleam in them and her smile moved from cunning to absolutely feral.

My mouth fell open slightly. I must be misinterpreting in addition to mishearing. "You and—you're dating Geoff?" I whispered. Her grin grew. "But you're—what—twelve years older than he is-!"

"Get 'em young, train 'em right," she whispered back. "Besides—_Ducky's_ older than you—"

"Yeah, but the difference between fifty-one and sixty-four isn't that big. But do you really think a fifteen year old should date a twenty-eight-year-old man? Skip that, I forgot to whom I was speaking," I said at her wicked look. _Mental note. Abby does NOT baby sit our kids. Not past two, anyway._

"Okay. That's a _little_ young," she admitted.

I raised an eyebrow. _Understatement._

"Well… I was over eighteen," she said with a wink.

"You were eighteen—and 'went with' someone who was thirty-one?" I euphemized. I was both fascinated and appalled.

"Actually, he was sixty-five and—Geoffy!" she squealed. She slipped off the table and clomped over to where Geoff was emerging from the stacks.

Her hug made him drop the stack of books he was carrying. "Hey, Abs."

I averted my eyes. That wasn't a kiss—that was half a step off of resuscitation or a tonsillectomy using a tongue as a scalpel. After a _long_ time, I called out, "Get a room!" Thank god there were no customers at the moment.

The bell over the door jangled; _please, please, come up for air or take it into the break room! _"Good afternoon, dear."

"Ducky!" I was half-relieved, half-delighted. Okay, half-relieved, _all_ delighted. "What, NCIS close for the day?"

"It seems that way. Abigail and I are both on call until five, but the agents are all working cold cases; our services were unnecessary." He cast a glance to the side. "_Really_,Abigail," he chided, bemused. A giggle was his only answer. "How do you feel?" he whispered.

I smiled and shrugged. "Fine," I mouthed.

"I stopped by to see what you would like for dinner. What time will you be home?"

"Valerie and Randy are closing, so… seven-ish. And—hmm. Dinner." I wagged by jaw back and forth, thinking. What sounds good… Heck, everything he makes is good.

"We're doing Benihana," Abby chirped, helping Geoff gather the fallen books. She followed him to the computer reference section and started shelving books. "How 'bout Japanese?"

"Benihana is marginally Japanese. It's Americanized Japanese," Ducky corrected. "It's more entertainment than authenticity."

"I know," Abby said cheerfully. "We're going for the entertainment."

_Before or after?_ I couldn't help thinking. From the sly smile on Ducky's face, his thoughts were along the same line. "Oh! I would love—" the phone rang. "To answer the phone," I laughed. "Papyrus, Cassandra speaking—"

"Hey, it's me, Chanda. Mom found grandfather's date of discharge."

I sat up. "And?"

"Nope."

"Darn." I drummed my fingers on the table, but no ideas came forth. "Can Ziva break into safes?" I asked Ducky.

He looked startled and then laughed. "Probably. She is a young lady with many talents."

Abby poked her head out. "Safecracking?" she asked with interest.

I gave them all a short version of that morning, emphasis on the safe.

"Hmm… that old, it's either going to be really easy or really difficult," Abby said. She brightened. "Hey, can we just blow it open?"

There was a laugh in my ear. "We'd like to know what's inside."

I repeated what Chanda had said. "True," Abby sighed.

"Perhaps the combination is linked to a hobby," Ducky suggested. "His lowest golf scores?" he said, voice a little louder.

"Didn't golf," Chanda said.

"Didn't golf," I repeated.

"Highest bowling scores?" Abby called out.

"Didn't bowl. No sports at all that I remember being mentioned."

"No sports at all. What _was_ he interested in?" I asked. I punched a button, putting her on speakerphone.

"Computers. Electronics. Gizmos. Technology. Old family story, he bought one of the first microwave ovens, back in the 60s. Grandmother refused to set foot in the kitchen until he took it away, she was sure they'd glow in the dark." There were varying laughs from most of us; Abby just shook her head in an, 'oh, get real' movement. "Let's see…" There were clattering noises from the phone. "The top of the piano still has a bunch of old pictures. Uncle Chris in the Scouts… Grandfather working on a rocket with Uncle Chris in the back yard… Grandfather building, um, god knows what in the garage… Grandfather working on the T-bird… Mother in school choir… Everyone in front of the Christmas tree… Grandfather and his team at JPL…"

That caught our attention. "JPL?" I repeated. "I thought you said he was an accountant."

"He was. But he worked with some of the early computers, writing software, accounting software."

"Did he work for IBM? Maybe it was the birthday for the founder of IBM," I suggested flippantly, remembering our earlier attempts.

"No, he was an independent contractor. He was way ahead of his time. He knew computers would revolutionize the workforce."

"And he was right! I mean, look at how we need computers," Abby said. "I can't fathom doing my job without computers!"

"Very slowly," Ducky teased.

"Grandfather even built his own computer at home. What a monster that was."

I laughed. "What was his name, Steve Jobs, Senior?"

"_I went to buy computers and they said, "A million bucks—for a brand-new mainframe IBM,"—now, that price really sucks,_" Geoff's voice floated from the stacks.

I picked up the song. "_So I looked at all the pictures and I chose to build my own, for you can build a mainframe from the things you find at home!_"

"Top forty song, Geoffy?" Abby teased as he emerged from the hard sciences area with an armload of books. He shrugged as she took half of the stack and started shelving them.

"Filk song," I explained. "I hired him at a science fiction convention."

Ducky grinned. I had introduced him to filk on a long drive to a weekend getaway, but I hadn't taken him to a convention. Yet.

"It was either that or _Uncle Ernie's used computer Babbage's birthday bargain bash,_" he sang. I had taught him well.

"_Once-in-a-lifetime discount deals, all sales are final and strictly cash!_" I finished.

"Ah, yes. The father of modern computing," Ducky said with a nod.

"I'm impressed." I was. The depth and breadth of Ducky's knowledge just astonishes me sometimes. "I only know the name because of that silly song."

"Maybe it's Babbage's birthday," Abby suggested with a laugh.

There was a snort from the speaker. "Like I'd know that off the top of my head? I had to hunt down Grandfather's date of discharge."

"Thank god for the internet," I said cheerfully. "We can look it up—"

"December 26, 1791."

Even Ducky looked surprised. We all stared at Abby, and there was silence from the phone that clearly meant Chanda was staring in shock, too.

"You know Charles Babbage's birthday… off the top of your head?" Ducky harked back to Chanda's comment.

"Doesn't everyone?" she asked cheerily. We looked at each other in amusement. "Okay, okay—it was on the 'famous birthday list' on my page-a-day calendar last year and it stuck with me because I thought, 'December 26, I bet he got gypped on Christmas presents,' and I remembered 1791 because that was the year the Bill of Right was ratified—"

_No wonder Abby and Ducky get along so well_.

"It worked."

Abby broke off and we all stared at the phone. "It worked?" I repeated.

"Uh-huh."

We waited, the silence broken by rustling noises. "What's in there? I mean, anything you feel comfortable telling us about?" I added quickly. For all we knew, it was his stash of Playboys. (Of course, vintage Playboys were collectible items, nowadays.)

"Money? Jewelry?" Abby suggested. There was a small _bang_. "Photosensitive chemicals?"

"Sorry. I dropped the ledgers."

"Ledgers?" I said.

"Uh-huh. Accounting ledgers. They say "duplicate—Quartermaster" on them. Ledgers and journals… and a briefcase…" There was a click, then a second click. "Unlocked. I guess he figured locked briefcase in a locked safe would be redundant."

"What's in it?" Abby asked excitedly.

"Um… disks. Computer disks. Big disks."

"How long has this safe been closed?" Abby asked suspiciously.

"1974."

"We're not talking three-and-a-half hard shell, are we?" Abby said, brow knit.

Chanda laughed shortly. "No. Square. Black. Circle in the middle."

After the fight to get to them, now I was curious what was _on_ those disks. "I don't know if I can read them… but I still have a _real_ floppy drive along with my three-and-a-half on my tower at home." Now everyone was staring at _me_. "What?" I said, a tad defensively.

"Nothing, nothing," Abby said quickly.

"Yes, I still have my old Betamax," I said tartly. "Still works, too, so—hush."

Abby was all but bouncing up and down. Actually, she was, a little. "I wanna see the disks! I _love_ antiques."

Ducky smiled. A kinda sneaky smile. Okay, maybe I _would_ pursue the topic. Later.

"I can bring them over to the store," Chanda suggested. "Mother just dropped off the girls, though," she added hesitantly.

"Bring 'em along. They're good kids."

"How soon they forget," she muttered. "Okay. Be there in twenty."

As Chanda hung up, Abby grabbed Geoff's hand and looked at him pleadingly. "Our rez isn't until seven. Could we _please_ stay?"

"Sure," he laughed. "I'm curious, too."

/ / /

The girls were in a much better mood than they had been that morning. (Grandma probably took them to McDonald's.) I made quick introductions, making sure to include the girls. (It used to cheese me off as a kid when I was overlooked by the adults.) Ellie was polite, Lee-Lee silent, trying to stand behind her sister. "May I get some books? May _we_ get some books?" Ellie asked with a quick correction.

"Oh, I suppose so," he mother said, sighing in mock-resignation.

Ellie grabbed her sister's hand and started to run off, then stopped. "The sign says 'parent must accompany child,'" she said, giving me a worried look.

I waved her off. "That's for the parents of kids who can't behave in public. You have permission to be there without your mother."

Looking quite pleased with herself, she and Lee-Lee walked quickly around the corner, heading for the kids/YA area. Within seconds I heard a stack of little kid books topple over. (Don't ask me how I knew. They sound different. They just do.)

"Sorry!" came wafting back. An adult, not Ellie; a customer who had joined us while Chanda was en route. "We'll pick them up!"

"Thanks!" I called back.

There was a high-pitched giggle and an answering adult laugh, followed by, "You silly goose!"

_Goose.  
><em>_Gosling.  
><em>_Duck.  
><em>_Duckling._

"So, what do we have," I asked briskly, pushing the thought aside.

"Ledger books. Journals. Most are accounting—" Chanda opened her book bag and brought them out. "The last one is a journal-type journal, tracking the work they were doing installing the computer system at Quartermaster."

"Why is that name familiar…?" I muttered.

"They were around years before I moved here. They were a sort of mail-order Fedco," Ducky explained.

"Fedco?" Abby asked, nose wrinkling.

"Imagine Costco—but only for federal employees," I explained. "But Costco wasn't around back then. There was Fedco and… Fedmart, I think."

"Oh."

"Quartermaster sold to anyone, they only had one warehouse—out here. Located in Virginia, I believe. I remember they were one of our suppliers when I worked for the Los Angeles Coroner's Office. Even with shipping charges, they were less expensive than local suppliers."

"You remember that this far down the road?" I teased.

"It was mostly the name that stuck with me."

"And the disks?" Abby interrupted.

Chanda pulled the briefcase up to the desk and opened it. I had a perfect vantage point from where I was sitting; the others crowded around her, peering over her shoulders. We all stared at the contents for a long moment.

"I'm… gonna… call… McGee," Abby said slowly.

"Do you have smelling salts?" Ducky asked me.

I shook my head. "I may go buy some while we wait, though."

* * *

><p>-3-<p>

"Do It Yourself" by Bill Sutton

"Uncle Ernie's Used Computer…" by Steve Savitzky


	4. Ladies Sewing Circle and Terrorist

**Chapter Four: ****Ladies Sewing Circle and Terrorist Society (Member in Good Standing)**

* * *

><p>McGee came in through the back door; as a pleasant surprise, Ziva was with him. "I'm giving her a lift to the repair shop," he said in answer to Abby's raised eyebrow. "What's up? Your message was—for you—pretty cryptic."<p>

"Ah—er—" I stammered.

"Well—" Abby spread her hands expressively.

"You see, Timothy—" Ducky started.

"Hi." Chanda stuck out her hand. "I'm Chanda Davis."

"Special Agent Timothy McGee," he said automatically.

Ziva accepted the offered hand as well. "Officer Ziva David."

"We have a bit of a mystery, Agent McGee, and we're hoping you can help," Chanda said with an easy smile.

"Mystery?" He shot me a split-second glance; I had discovered his nom de plume a month or so ago at Book Expo, but hadn't had a chance to reassure him that I was going to keep the secret. I smiled in what I hoped would be a reassuring manner.

"Yes. You see, when my grandfather died, he left behind a locked safe…"

"Safe?" He took advantage of the short pause. "Ziva might be better at getting into a locked safe." She looked pleased as punch at his comment.

"Oh, no—but thank you." Chanda smiled at them both. "I managed to get into the safe. We found ledger books—and a briefcase with computer diskettes in it."

He looked curious—but concerned. "Diskettes?" he asked doubtfully.

Everyone in front of the counter slowly stepped back like he was Charlton Heston doing his Moses gig. Chanda indicated the briefcase in front of me—unlocked and open, the lid resting on the bottom half. McGee cautiously opened the lid. And stared.

After several minutes, he slowly pulled his eyes away from the contents. "You're joking."

"No joke," Chanda said.

He gave me an affronted look. "You told me you didn't have eight inch disks!"

I stared at him blankly for a minute, then almost laughed. When NCIS was investigating the death of Commander David Sutton last fall, part of the investigation involved taking in all of my computers and paraphernalia. McGee had been—ah—verklempt at my five-and-a-quarter inch diskettes, and I had made an offhand comment that he should be glad they weren't eight. He had turned green at the thought. "Good memory—but these aren't _my_ disks."

"So." Chanda gave him a bright smile. "Everyone says you're the go-to guy for computers—"

"Computers, yes, but—this is an Indiana Jones expedition! These aren't old, they're _ancient_!" He looked at Abby, who had dragged him into this, with horror. "Eight inch floppy disks? Are you insane? Why not ask me about punch cards while you're at it?"

He was really distressed. Timothy McGee is one of the politest people I know. I've never seen him sarcastic.

"I may as well seal them in acrylic and turn them into trivets!"

"Sounds cool!" Abby piped up. "After we check out the data, though, okay?"

He gave her an exasperated look. "Seriously. Media doesn't last forever. What do you expect me to do?"

"They were my grandfather's. He locked them in the safe, so they _have_ to be important. He was killed in 1974—"

He looked taken aback. "I'm sorry." He recovered his equilibrium slightly. "Do you think there's evidence on the disks?" His brow was furrowing rapidly.

"Oh, no, I'm sure there isn't. Mostly we're just curious." Chanda cocked her head slightly and gave him a smile. "Wouldn't _you_ be?"

He reached out a hand and cautiously poked at one of the enormous disks. "Yeah… I would…" He looked at her almost apologetically. "You understand—after all this time, they're probably blank."

"Well—they were sealed in a briefcase, locked in a safe. Wouldn't that help?"

"Not _quite_ hermetically sealed…" He still had miles of lines on his forehead. "I don't know. It might."

"Could you try?" I wheedled. "_Brownies_," I whispered.

"I'll… _try_." He sighed. "I don't even know where to get an eight inch drive, let alone the program. Computer museum?" He gave a twisted smile. "I wasn't far off with Indiana Jones. Next time, just get me an abacus."

"Abacus?" Chanda looked puzzled. (I was, too.)

"The abacus is considered the first computer," Abby said almost primly.

"_Really_ low-tech," I laughed.

"I'll… call around," McGee said resignedly. "Where am I going to find an eight inch floppy drive?" he muttered.

"Library of Congress?"

Ziva had wandered to the edge of the group and was idly thumbing through the OED perched on a lectern at the end of the counter. Magnifying glass in hand (the only way to read the tiny type), she smiled at our looks of confusion and interest. "There was a special on the History Channel on the Library of Congress. They have many interesting and educational shows, I find it a very helpful channel."

Ducky's eyes lit up. "Yes! They had a show the other week detailing the history of the trebuchet. Did you know—"

While we were waiting for McGee to arrive, Ducky had come around to sit behind the counter with me. I reached over and covered his hand. "Honey? Later, okay?" I whispered. I leaned past him so I could see Ziva better. "You were saying—Library of Congress?"

"Yes." She abandoned the dictionary and rejoined the group. "They have everything from handwritten manuscripts to CDs, all manner of media. In the case of non-written media, they need the method of reproducing the recording. They have wax cylinders and a player—"

Ducky sat up a little straighter and looked like he was going to interject something. I gave his hand a little squeeze and he settled back, giving me an apologetic smile.

"—equipment for early motion pictures, 8-track cassettes, video tapes—"

"Not a word about my Betamax," I threatened no one in particular.

"—and all types of computers. They said they scour the world for old units to take apart, to—" She frowned. "All I can think of is 'zombie.'"

Abby giggled. "You mean cannibalize?"

"Yes, yes, that is it."

McGee shrugged. "It won't hurt to ask."

Ducky had been sitting the last moment with a thoughtful look on his face and now spoke up. "I believe I have a friend who works there…"

Abby beat me to the punch. "I knew you would, Duckman."

McGee was still fretting. "God knows what program they were running—"

"Maybe there's information in the ledgers?" Chanda suggested. "You're welcome to borrow the whole shebang."

"Thanks." He mustered a smile. "I'll try my best."

Ducky gave him his patent-pending encouraging grin. "If anyone can do it, Timothy, dear boy, you can."

/ / / / /

Fran Peterson was right. Latex is a pain in the ass.

Wednesday was an all-around great night. Charlie wasn't crowing over her summer school grades—Ev and Lily took care of that, thank you very much. Charlie was almost dismissive ("It's easy to get an 'A' if the topic is of interest.") but the fact that her "Fall Review: Math" class was the single B and she was distressed over it made it clear that she did pay attention. Victoria fussed over me like she hadn't seen me for years instead of days. It took a huge effort not to spill the beans; hearing that Ducky and I were expecting would have thrilled her beyond measure. (Hmm. Will Charlie be older sister, cousin or Auntie Charlie?)

But that was later. I came home early because of Victoria's meltdown. For weeks they had been preparing her for Charlie going to summer camp and she seemed to understand the concept, even bringing forth stories of when Ducky went off to camp. She helped plan the going away party for this Saturday. And then something snapped. Not long after Ducky got home, Suzy found his mother in her room, huddled in her bed, sobbing like her heart would break. Suzy couldn't get anything close to a coherent answer and ran to get Ducky, who was upstairs adding to the 'stuff from Ducky's house' list. _He_ wasn't able to get a coherent answer, either. Finally he was able to pick out what sounded—_maybe_—like "Cassandra" but that was it. He called me; I knew talking to her on the phone was useless, so, with an understanding look from Valerie, I headed west at a rapid clip.

Everyone was crowded into Victoria's room (no mean feat) when I got home. Charlie was asking imploringly, "Grandma, _please_ tell me what's wrong?" as I walked in; Victoria just continued to sob.

Ducky actually looked a little scared. He caught my eye, gave me an 'I have no idea' shrug and hand spread and looked at his mother in consternation. I made my way through the throng to her daybed and knelt next to her. "Mother? Mother, it's Cassandra, what's wrong? Are you feeling ill? Did you hurt yourself?" No response, just more tears. I gently manhandled her into a sitting position so that I could sit next to her. "Come here… come here, come here, come here," I murmured, putting my arms around her. Her head fell onto my shoulder and she _really_ started to cry. "What has you so upset? Tell me. I'll make it better, I promise," I rashly vowed.

About five minutes later, she started to slow up a bit. "You're—going away!" she wailed.

"No," I said slowly, very gently, "_Charlotte_ is going away—to summer camp. She'll be gone for _two_ _weeks_. And you can chat with her every night on the computer."

"You're going away! You're _all_ going away!"

It took a lot of false starts and do-overs, but we finally got it straight. Charlie was going to camp. When she came back, she and her moms were moving away—and Ducky and I were going with them, leaving her all alone. Hoo-boy.

"Oh, Grandma!" Charlie clambered onto the daybed on Victoria's other side. "I won't ever, _ever_ leave you. The first day I come back from camp, Mommy said I may spend the night here, with you. We're _never_ moving away, not _any_ of us!"

She raised her head from my shoulder and looked into my eyes. "Never?" she whispered.

"Never," I promised. "Mother, Duc—Donald and I are getting _married_. I'm moving _into_ the house. None of us are moving _out_."

She turned to look at Charlie. "You will come back?" The broken look on her face made _me_ want to cry.

"I swear it." Charlie held up her hand, pinky out. "Pinky swear," she said solemnly.

Victoria held out her own hand and they linked fingers. Reassured, she burst into a delighted smile. "Even Max?"

I doubt she'll ever call Underfoot by his proper name. "Yes. Even Max."

She thought for a moment. "Donald! Have you started dinner?"

"I… was about to, Mother."

"There's a chipmunk in the back garden," she whispered to Charlie.

"I know," she whispered back. "I have a bag of peanuts for him. Shall we go see if he would like them as a snack?"

"Oh, yes, let's!" Charlie took Victoria's hand and led her from the room.

The rest of us looked at one another in confusion. "Crisis averted?" Suzy asked cautiously.

"I… think so?" Ducky said.

"In that case… what's for dinner? Need my help?" I asked.

"Darling…" Ducky walked over, leaned down and kissed me. "You have done quite enough." He bent closer to whisper in my ear, "Would you like to go upstairs and lie down?"

Oh, yeah, like Evelyn and Lily wouldn't notice _that_. "Do you need anything from the market? Surely there's something around here I can do," I said with a dramatic sigh.

"Well… could you run to the bakery?"

"No, but I could drive to the bakery. Ar, ar, ar."

Ducky winced. "After an answer like that, I don't know if I should leave the choice of dessert in your hands."

"I'll keep her in line," Evelyn volunteered.

I locked eyes with Ducky. Great. Evelyn was the one who first put the bug in my ear about being pregnant…

"And who will keep _you_ in line?" Lily said sweetly.

"Ow!" Ev protested.

"Truth hurts?" I asked.

"Ow! Again!"

"Actually, Evelyn, you could do me a favor… we're toying with the idea of doing a bit of remodeling when Sandy moves in. I understand you did quite a bit of the work at Papyrus over the years, as well as your own shop…" Ducky slipped an arm about her shoulders and turned her from the room.

Lily looked at me with a big smile. "Me car? You car?"

"You car—if you don't mind," I added quickly, remembering Wonder Woman was still recuperating from two bullet wounds. (I've seen people show more pain over getting their teeth cleaned.) "I'm pooped."

Lily gave me the once-over twice as I got into the car. "You're not kidding, kid. You look like you wuz rode hard an' put away wet," she said in a dreadful drawl.

"Thanks, heaps."

She gave me a sly look as she started the engine. "Late night with the doc?"

I blushed to my roots.

"Say no more!"

/ / /

Over post-dinner dominoes I got the stunning news that our going away party on Saturday was going to be even larger than planned.

"You're joking."

Evelyn and Lily shook their heads in identical no's.

_Oh, shit_, I thought. Instead I said, "How many?"

"Six," Lily said, her voice as low as mine. "Grandfather and Grandmother Kemmelbacher, three aunts, one uncle."

Ducky managed a smile. After all, he had been the one to suggest inviting the other family, feeling that no matter what they had done and said in the past, it would be rude to not invite them. (He probably never thought they would accept.) "I have conferred with Charlotte and have come up with a plan. We plan to… expanded the guest list somewhat…?"

Suzy snorted faintly. (She was already invited.) "What, put an ad in the _Gazette_?"

"Oh, she was thinking some of my colleagues who have heard me talk about her. Anthony. Timothy." He smiled faintly. "Ziva." He cocked his head at me. "…Jethro…"

Gibbs is not a party boy. But he took an instant dislike to Mrs. Kemmelbacher when Lily was shot—and an instant like to Charlie. I grinned. "Oh, yeah, I think Leroy Jethro Gibbs would be the _perfect_ addition to the crowd. And—and you _must_ invite Abby."

"I'd never leave her out," he said firmly. "Actually… Charlotte called them before Mother's, ah, problem, and every single one accepted."

Of course they would. They'd do just about anything for Ducky. Even come to what was essentially a kids' party with a smattering of adults scattered about.

Evelyn began to giggle. Lily looked at her in confusion. "What's so funny?"

"Oh! You never met Abby, did you?" Evelyn tipped her head to one side, tapping her chin. "Let's see… she's really tall, wears platform shoes that make her about six feet, coal black hair, really pretty—dresses kind of like a cross between a Catholic schoolgirl and a lightweight biker and a punk rocker with a dash of Goth thrown in, she's got this huge spiderweb tattoo on her neck—"

"And a giant cross on her back," I added.

"I wish you had a pool," Lily murmured.

"Why?" Ducky asked.

"Just envisioning Abby in a bikini… and both of the grandparents. I don't know which would be more interesting: she going all The Lord Shall Smite Thee—or he trying to do the same while ogling her."

"Forgot to mention—she bowls with nuns," I added. My eye was caught by Underfoot standing in the doorway. "Hey, Footers. You miss me?" Apparently not; he stood in the doorway and glared at me. "What? You're used to me being gone for a couple of days. What's your malfunction?" He continued to glower. I leaned over toward Ducky. "You did feed him, yes?"

"Charlie did," Ev volunteered. "She's trying to convince us to get a cat."

"Litter box?" I prompted Ducky. He winced. We were both spoiled by the self-cleaning one at my house; we had yet to find an outlet in the basement that would let us leave the hand-sifted variety behind. "Sorry, Foot. My bad." I wriggled back from the coffee table. "Be right back, won't take a minute, wanna switch to poker?" I added as I left the room.

Ducky caught up with me before I got to the basement. "I'll do it."

"Jeez, Ducky, I'm already here. But thanks for the offer, sweetie."

"No," he said more firmly. "_I'll_ do it."

"Honey, don't feel guilty about forgetting, I can—"

"No. You _can't_." He took my arm and led me into the basement, shutting the door behind us. "Here." He walked me down to Foot's nook in the wall. "Have you ever read the back of the container of litter?"

"Other than to make sure it's not the scented stuff—he just _hates_ that—no. Why?"

He hoisted the bin up to the table we used for folding laundry and pointed to a paragraph outlined in red and with a big CAUTION above it. In a nutshell: pregnant women should not clean litter boxes because of the danger of toxoplasmosis. "Oh."

"Yes. _Oh_. From here on out, this is _my_ chore," he said, giving me 'that look' over the top of his glasses.

I held up my hands in surrender. "No argument. But, in my defense, I never had reason to notice that until now, okay?"

"Okay," he echoed. He slipped his arms around me and pulled me close. "I just want to take the best care of you and our baby that I can. If I seem overprotective—well, I will be. You're simply going to have to suffer through it."

I hugged him, rubbing my cheek against his chest. "Oh, all right," I sighed. "I'll lump along as best I can being spoiled…" I reached up and kissed him. "…and pampered…" Another kiss. "…and loved beyond measure…" Another kiss, and I snuggled against his shoulder. "I feel so sorry for all the other women in the world…because they don't have you."

"Flattery—" He tipped my chin up and gave me a kiss. "—will get you everywhere."

"Another backrub tonight?"

"Certainly."

"We can trade…"

"That has a nice sound to it."

"Maybe a repeat of last night…?"

He grinned. "That has a _very_ nice sound to it."

"Remember—the real estate agent is coming over tomorrow."

"How can I forget? Your house is so clean, not only would your _mother_ approve, you could perform surgery on the kitchen floor."

"No," I said, turning toward the stairs. "Then it _would_ be my mother's house."

/ / / / /

I felt a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy bit guilty over Thursday. Yes, the agent was coming over—but I asked her to move the appointment to first thing in the morning instead of afternoon. I had a feeling if I told Ducky where I planned to go and what I planned to do, he would be less than thrilled.

Misty Barillia had saved my bacon almost a year ago, coming up with a fancy dress costume for my first date with Ducky—and providing perfect hair and makeup as well. Just this last weekend, Abby and Ducky had enlisted her aid in disguising Fran so that she could slip out of the hospital without being mobbed by the paparazzi. And here she was helping me out for a third time. I really owe this girl some cookies.

When John Mulder and I met up at the Gaslight Theatre, Misty was ready and waiting.

"How good do you have to look?" Misty asked, scraping my hair back and putting it under a screamingly tight-fitting mesh cap.

"Good is relative. I need to look _old_."

"How close?" She started cleaning my face, stripping off any dirt and oil so the spirit gum would adhere the latex to my face. "Huggy-kissy close? Medical exam close? Back row of the bus close?"

John snorted. "Not medical. Not this trip, anyway."

"Huggy-kissy, maybe," I said.

"_Mrs. Doubtfire_, here we come," Misty sang out.

I narrowed my eyes. "Make me look like Sandra Bullock and I'll cry," I threatened.

John looked at me in askance. "Sandra Bullock is _smokin'_."

"As the old lady in _Miss_ _Congeniality_ _2_? God, those teeth!"

Misty used Mrs. Rozhdestvensky's state ID as a guide (I didn't need to look like _her_ so much as I needed to look like her _ID_—which, unlike most of us, bore more than a passing resemblance to reality) and set about slapping another thirty-odd years on my mug.

(When I looked at the alphabet soup on the card, I almost fainted. Mulder had just introduced her as "Grandma Rosie" and never went any further. She was gung-ho-to-go on our plans, mourning the fact that she couldn't come with us. "My next door neighbor moved in there almost three years ago. So if you run into a Sylvia Carmichael, just tell her you're still waiting for her to return my J. D. Robb books—well, _your_ J. D. Robb books. That'll shut her nosy yap right up. She borrowed almost two dozen books all at one time, said she returned them—every time I'd ask her about them, she'd turn on her heel and stomp into the house. I already replaced them—and, actually, it got her out of my hair, so it was cheap at twice the price." I didn't notice her full name until we were back in the car; at my incredulous look, Mulder just shrugged. "Grandfather was first-gen, Russian immigrant parents." "You wanna teach me how to say my own name, please?" Took me fifteen minutes before I could say it without stumbling.)

It took a couple of hours, but Misty did a very creditable job. I was more stylishly attired than Fran—a pretty lightweight knit skirt and sweater set in heather gray with a high-necked, long-sleeved lacy blouse that covered where the latex disappeared and my skin took over. Fortunately Grandma Rosie only wore reading glasses, and willingly loaned me one of her myriad pair. She also added choice bits of jewelry; when I protested (I was scared I'd lose them), she said, "If you're going to _play_ me, you need to _be_ me." She even handed over her wedding set, saying, "If you _do_ run into Sylvia, that's the first thing she'll look for. She was a real jewelry hound." With a pang, I put my engagement ring on a chain and slipped it under my blouse.

Mulder stared at me. "That's… scary."

"Yeah?"

"You know in _Mrs. Doubtfire_, when Harvey Fierstein says, 'Any closer and you'd be Mom?'"

"Yeah…?"

"Well—you look more like my grandmother than my grandmother does."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment," Misty said. She handed me a pair of low-heeled pumps (Mulder had said Grandma Rosie would die before wearing "those clodhoppers" when she suggested the orthopedic shoes Fran had worn) and took a number of pictures for her portfolio. Mulder and I hopped into his car, and I spent the last 15 minutes before show time practicing my name a few more times.

Mulder wasn't far off with his assessment of Martin Romero. He was a little smoother than Harvey Bains, but not by much. I could understand the reason—gotta keep the residents (and their money) happy. No residents=no income=applying for unemployment benefits.

"Mis-ter Mul-der," he said enthusiastically, pumping John's hand. "And this must be your dear grandmother."

No, I'm his dear grand**father**, ding-dong. Instead I smiled genially and shied away from shaking hands. "My arthritis is touchy this morning," I whispered confidentially.

"Ah. I understand."

Actually, I was scared to death he'd dislodge the paper-thin latex wrinkles on my hands—but that was for me to know and for him to hopefully not find out.

"So, Mrs. Rozh—Rozduh—Roz—"

"Call me Rosie," I encouraged. If we waited for him to get it right, we'd be there all day. I took the clipboard the financial officer handed me; they wanted to know everything short of my blood type. Oh, crap; all I knew was her name and part of her address. "Could I fill this out at home? My fingers are so stiff today…"

"Perhaps your grandson—" the woman started.

"Not a problem, not a problem," Harvey Bains—I mean Martin Romero—said jovially. The financial officer looked a little surprised, but quickly covered it with a smile. Mulder looked surprised—and didn't bother to cover it up. "I know you could buy us outright if you wanted to," Romero joked. "No worry of _you_ paying every month!"

Crass bastard. I gave him a polite smile. As he turned away, I slipped the papers into my huge bag and mouthed, 'I'll fill them out later' to the woman behind the counter. She gave me a relieved smile and nodded. But it was clear Romero had done his own research on Mulder, or he wouldn't have known Rose Rozhdestvensky was rolling in clover.

"Now. What would you like to see first?"

"Why, everything," I said sweetly. He offered me an arm, but I quickly took Mulder's. "Johnny is used to keeping pace with me." Plus, I didn't want him any closer to my makeup job than he had to be.

I had borrowed Rosie's spare four-prong cane and used it to keep Romero at a distance. A couple of, "Oh, I'm so sorry!" clunks against his ankle and he got the hint. _If this does turn into a bad edit of "Password to Larkspur Lane," this sucker will make a good weapon. Don't know that I'd have as good a swing as Mother did menacing DeeAnn Dabenow, but I can try!_

I listened to Romero spouting statistics as we walked down the corridor. How many people in residence. How many at the private hospital. Waiting list, about six months long. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Oh, my god! Waiting list! Maybe after they've bled someone dry financially, they have a sudden "illness" or "accident" and they end up at the hospital—by the time they die, it looks like natural causes. Like—like "Coma" only they're killing people off instead of stopping at a coma!

I managed to not roll my eyes. _Yeah, right. And who is paying for the hospital care? That's part of the perks, why the monthly maintenance is so high. If you end up in their hospital and run out of cash, they keep you there until the end of the line. That stupid little plot line would COST them money._

I sighed; Romero glanced at me and I gave him a vague smile. _Nancy Drew made this look so easy…!_

Our first stop was the TV room. BIG room. BIG TV. "Residents are allowed to have a television in their room—and most do have one. But we run movies frequently during the week—videos, DVDs, sometimes newly issued movies—" He leaned close (a little too close!) and whispered, "The great-grandfather of the head of Pinnacle Studios is one of our guests."

Next was the "clubhouse." At odds with the weather, a woman (spitting image of Edna from _The Incredibles_, including gotta-be-a-dye-job jet black hair) was pounding out, "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" with all her might on a baby grand. Residents who had grouped themselves by vocal range surrounded her—and they were doing a darn good job on harmony. "Christmas show," Romero said. (No, duh?) "Never too early to start practicing!"

In another corner of the room, a couple of wicked games of bridge were going on. Ducky plays bridge; so does Mother (well, sort of). I've never picked up the habit. But these gals (and two lone guys) were rabid players; as we passed by, one of the women slammed her cards down, snarling, "You moron!" to the woman across the way. Romero quickly steered us back into the hall.

There was an exercise class going on for wheelchair-bound residents; about fifteen people were enthusiastically doing bends and stretches in time to Taco's version of "Puttin' on the Ritz." "We also have two indoor pools—one full size, full depth, one four foot depth for laps. Family members can visit any time, and, on Sundays, use the pool as well."

Arts and crafts room, library, _billiards_, for god's sake—_I hope they __**aren't**__ doing something nefarious. When it comes time for Mother to go somewhere, this place is fantastic._ Every so often there would be little reminders that this wasn't just a swank resort—signs reading, "Today is THURSDAY July 26, 2007. The weather is HOT (picture of a big sun) and HUMID (cartoon of a woman dripping sweat and fanning herself)" were all over, and the entrance to each room had pictures of the on duty attendants—broad smiles and wearing the No Place Like Home uniform of dark blue scrub pants and a scrub top of their choosing (most opted for a solid color, though one gal in the library had Disney princesses on hers). _If we sneak someone in to pretend to be staff, it would be easy enough to fake it, even the nametag and the ID card on the lanyard wouldn't take more than a day to make…_

Playacting is hard business, especially pretending to be slow and frail; I was getting tired. When we entered what Mr. Romero called 'the modern morning room,' I was ready to call it a day. Grandma Rosie probably would have done better than I did—both stamina-wise and information gathering.

Romero was starting to extol the virtues of the brand spanking new computers when his cell phone vibrated. He checked the number, and his smile dropped a hair. "I apologize for the interruption, but this is a call I _must_ take." He flipped open the cover. "Martin Romero. One moment, please." He turned back to us. "Please, feel free to check out the room on your own, visit with some of the residents—this will only take a moment." With a game show host-worthy smile, he stepped out to the patio. As he turned away and put the phone to his ear, his smile dropped completely.

"Oh, Papa Bear is pissed," John said, mouth close to my ear.

"Mmmh," I agreed quietly. "You take south half—I'm going to chat up the non-computer people."

The two women working a huge jigsaw puzzle (kittens and yarn) told me how _marvelous_ the place was, how _marvelous _the staff was, how _marvelous_ Mr. Romero was, how _marvelous_—I got the drift. At the next table, a gal was working a book of extra-large print Sudoku puzzles; she had such a look of determination, I didn't bother her.

As I passed by an octagonal table, the lone occupant looked up and gave me an engaging smile. "Are you new here?"

"Considering," I said.

She indicated an empty chair. "You look exhausted, dear."

"Thank you," I said, sinking into the seat. "I'm going to need to buy roller skates if I move in here!"

"You could just join the jogging club," she laughed. She held out a hand. "Mary Martin, like Peter Pan."

Another alliterative name. "Rose Rozhdestvensky. Call me Rosie," I added, as she blinked at the consonant-laden syllables. "This is certainly not what I was expecting in a retirement home."

"This is not you father's retirement home," she said. Oldsmobile should be happy. Almost twenty years later and people are still harking back to their slogan.

"Not at all," I agreed. _Heck, if Mother doesn't want to move in __**I**__ will. Now. How would Nancy Drew handle this…_ "Have you been here long?"

"Just over a year. I should have moved in ages ago! My daughter and son-in-law never made me feel _unwelcome_, you understand—quite the opposite… but you know how it is. _You_ always feel that you're in the way, even if _they_ feel you aren't."

I made a noncommittal "mm-hmm" noise.

"It's not as though I never see them. Janet and the children come over quite often. Brad gives my car a checkup every other week or so—"

"You have a car? Here?"

"Heavens, yes! I'd say almost half of us do. They have a private covered garage—" She gestured vaguely west. "And Sean will have the car brought around if you let him know in advance."

"Sean?"

"Mr. Romero's major domo." She leaned over. "The _extremely_ good looking former Navy pilot with the dark red buzz cut," she whispered.

"Ah."

"Aside from special trips, that's the only thing not included in our monthly fees—gasoline, car upkeep, such like." She finished addressing the lavender envelope, stamped it and set it aside. "This weekend, we have a trip to New York," she said not-quite-smugly. "The Met is featuring _Carmen_; we're spending the night at the Marriott, private dinner—oh, it's going to be wonderful! And last week, we had a special behind the scenes tour at the Smithsonian, we were allowed into the conservation room—"

_That's it. __**I'm**__ moving in._ She pulled a blank sheet of stationary from a box and I couldn't help but laugh a little. The lavender sheet had shadows of cats and kittens in slightly darker lavender romping all over the page. "That's adorable!"

"Isn't it?" she smiled. "It was a thank you gift from Felidae. I donate to them all the time. One of the reasons I was so taken with No Place Like Home is they have pet wings, so I was able to bring Fafhrd and Gray Mouser with me."

I grinned. "You're a reader of science fiction." (Fritz Leiber, anyway.)

"My late husband was. I lean more toward mysteries and romantic thrillers."

_Have I got a plot for you, honey._ "I've never heard of Felidae."

"Oh, they're a wonderful group. You know, at the pound, if an animal has been there 'so long' without being adopted, sometimes they have to… ah… make room."

Euthanasia. "Ah. Yes."

"Well, Felidae _never_ does that. The only time they'll put an animal down if it's for severe medical reason, if it would be cruel to keep the animal alive."

"They must end up packed to the rafters in kitten season."

"They are!" She poked through her pile of papers. "Here. They're having a new building fundraiser."

I glanced at the folded brochure. Pictures of puppies, kitten, dogs, cats. Gently worded pleas for money. Surprisingly, the top beg amount was only fifty bucks. _We understand that financial needs change from month to month. So that you never have the problem of not being in the position of making a donation in a particular month and having to cancel, we do NOT set our benefactors up on automatic payments as many other charities do. __You__ decide when and how much—and we are grateful for every contribution!_

"They've sent me lovely address stickers and cute stickers of dogs and cats before, but this was a thank you for being such a regular contributor."

"It's beautiful stationery."

"I'd help them out anyway—but it's nice to get a little thank you."

"Oh, I understand. I end up donating more to PBS than I had planned because of the books, the CDs, the DVDs…"

"That's another thing I love about Home." She gestured to indicate the building in general. "Some facilities don't want you to get your mail delivered there—why, I don't really know—but they have no problem with us getting mail, packages… I get my book club, my CD club—Janet and Brad don't have to drive out every other day… it really is just like being at home, only I have so many wonderful roommates!"

I laughed with her. "This certainly seems a lovely place. I hear it's very hard to get in."

"Well… not _that_ hard. There is a waiting list, but I don't think I waited more than four months. And it's certainly worth the wait!"

I made another noise of agreement. "I'm just a little… uncomfortable… giving out my financial information," I whispered, giving her a 'you know what I mean?' look.

"Oh, I understand. It's not that intrusive, they just want to make sure we can stay current on the bills. My late husband and I set up a living trust years ago; it's so nice—it automatically pays my monthly rent here, and I can write little checks for my extravagances." She waggled her fingers at the pile of mail.

"You're certainly keeping the post office in business."

"Oh, I have grandchildren across the country. Two in Germany! My youngest son is stationed there."

"Ah."

She reached off to the side of the table, her blouse cuff pulling back to show a clunky breaded bracelet that, frankly, didn't go with her outfit. She caught my glance. "It's not very attractive, is it," she laughed.

"Well…"

"One of the children made it, I felt I should be supportive and at least wear it once."

"Grandchild's summer camp art project?" I asked, thinking of Charlie.

"No, no—it's a home for the developmentally disabled." She looked around the room. "Mayra told me about them," she said, pointing to one of the computer users. Mulder was deep in conversation with her. "The children get help to progress as far as they can physically and academically, but often that's, well, not very far. They encourage them to use their creative talents. They have a little internet store; the money is split between the child and the home—or they'll send something as a thank you." She rotated her wrist, the light glancing off the garish beads. "A dear girl named Lindy Lou made this especially for me. I just got this today." She gave me a bemused look. "There isn't one item I own that this will match!"

"Tie dye?" I suggested.

"At the minimum. But she tried so hard, I just had to wear it at least once."

I nodded understandingly. "Oh, excuse me. Mr. Romero seems to be done with his business call—" I started to rise; it's hard to do when you're not accustomed to using a cane.

"Well, I hope you do decide to join us! We have a cutthroat rummy cube club," she said with a broad wink. Her face took on a forced, polite smile. "Good morning, Sylvia."

As I stood, I turned and came almost face to face with a woman who was about my height but all angles and no padding. She actually blanched and gasped, "Rosie?"

Misty just got an A+. "Well, my heavens. What a surprise," I said drily.

"It's—been a while," she stammered.

"Yes. It has. You wouldn't, by chance, have found those—"

"Excuse me, I forgot my—my watch," she improvised, hurrying from the room.

"Oh, you _must_ move in," Mary Martin said. "Sylvia Carmichael is a crow. Borrows everything, returns nothing."

"She has two dozen of my books."

"She has my favorite brooch. And the worst part is, it's not in her room. Mr. Romero convinced her to let me in to look. I don't know what she's done with it—but everyone tries to keep her at arms' length. If you have the power to make her turn and run, I will stick to your side forever."

Grandma Rosie was going to get a kick out of our report. My part, anyway. _But why in the world did Shelly drop Mother like a hot potato?_ I smiled up at Mulder as he took my arm. "Thank you, Johnny."

Romero was in a much better mood. "Now. How about lunch, mmh?"

/ / /

Whatever There's No Place Like Home is charging… it's worth it.

Lunch in an outside restaurant—just my lunch—would have been thirty bucks, easily. And if breakfast and dinner are of the same quality (no reason to think they wouldn't be), meals alone would cost a resident $80 to $100 a day on the outside. Even figuring a lower average of $60 a day, that's $1800 a month for food.

And, oh, holy crap, was it good food. I resented having my appetite sour at the end. It wasn't a late run of morning sickness. No, it was the sudden appearance of Shelly Romero at our table.

"Shelly, dear, this is Mrs.—" He made several false starts on Rozhdestvensky and laughed weakly.

"Rosie is fine," I was finally forced to say. I didn't want to say word one in front of Shelly but I couldn't very well ignore her husband floundering like a fish on the pier.

"Rosie is thinking of joining our little family. Rosie, this is my wife, Shelly. She's my unofficial assistant here, but she runs the show at home!" He laughed a little too jovially and draped an arm about her waist, giving her a little squeeze.

Boy, did she look uncomfortable. Her smile was stiff—probably as stiff as mine. And her husband has plainly never read an etiquette book.

Mulder jumped into the awkward moment. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Romero. John Mulder. My grandmother and I were just taking the tour today."

_Christ on a crutch, don't bring her attention on me!_ I wanted to scream. I smiled politely, vaguely, my head bobbling a little like I'd sometimes seen in the elderly. (Not Victoria. Her hands, on the other, uh, hand, have a bit of a tremble a lot of the time. I've taken to filling her teacup halfway.)

"If you'd like, we can fill out those application forms, get the ball rolling—"

"Yes, yes, I—" I broke off suddenly and leaned toward Mulder. "Johnny," I whispered (just loudly enough that Mr. and Mrs. couldn't miss it), "I need to go home. I need to go home… _now_," I implored him.

"Oh. Oh, of course," he 'whispered' back. "We'll have to do the paperwork another day—or I can bring it back—but we, ah, need to leave. Now." He gave Romero a meaningful look.

I kept my face lowered, pretending to be embarrassed. It wasn't hard, but what I was really trying to do was keep out of Shelly's line of sight as much as possible.

"I understand," Romero said sympathetically. He pushed his chair back and carefully pulled my chair back as I stood. (Okay, he read at least _one_ chapter of an etiquette book.) "We'll walk you to your car."

_God, no!_ I almost yelped.

Mulder said, "Thank you," and I barely kept from decking him. (Talk about blowing cover!)

I putzed around, straightening my sweater, smoothing my skirt, hanging my purse and arranging it 'just so,' trying to keep the image of a picky old lady in play.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Neoma—Shelly, I mean, though my first instinct was to call her Neoma—staring at our table, at the remnants of lunch. She was all but transfixed. I took Mulder's arm and turned away and heard a couple of soft clink-click noises. Romero waggled his fingers; Shelly went to his side and he placed a hand on her back, between her shoulders, gently propelling her forward. "Shall we?" As they stepped away, I glanced back.

She had quickly, carefully, quietly arranged the used flatware so the pieces neatly lay across the top third of the plates and re-folded the napkins and set them to the right of the plates. I almost laughed; it reminded me of holiday dinner at Gamma's, the only time we ever used all of our table manners. Then I remember the weeks of her carefully planned lunches. The laundry she'd frequently do, shirts hung with military precision and in order by the Roy G. Biv color spectrum and sub-categorized by sleeve length and pattern. The hand washed dishes from breakfast and lunch—spoons, forks and knives segregated and lined up like soldiers, plates in size order and in neat rows so that if you looked at them face on, the stack looked like one plate, no errant edges poking out.

Neoma? Shelly? Try Adrian Monk.

The walk to Mulder's car was torturously long, even though we were parked near the entrance. I couldn't wait to get away—it was a great place, I still had clue zip as to what was going on, I'd love to delve further, but I wanted to be as far away from Shelly as possible… and the latex appliances were driving me crazy.

Mulder handed me into the car, tucked my purse by my feet, thanked Romero again for the tour and carefully backed the car out of the slot. I gave them little bye-bye waves, still waggling my fingers until we were out of the lot and totally out of sight. "Oh, my god, I almost died when Ne—Shelly walked up."

"You and me both. I thought you were going to run for the door."

"Damn close." I pulled out my cell and scrolled down to Misty's number. "We just left. See you in about twenty minutes."

"Well, I got zip," Mulder said as I shut my phone. "Everyone loves the place, they love Harvey Bains, they love Jane—I think they're putting 'ludes in the stew."

"Who put the Benzedrine in Mrs. Murphy's Ovaltine," I half-sang half-sighed. "Yeah, the gal I was talking to said she should have moved in long ago."

"I get the same feeling you did. There's something slightly off-key, but I have no idea where to go. One of the gals has her billing on auto-pay. One has it billed to her credit card. A third likes to write a check every month. Nobody is being double-dipped. One fee, one payment, no extra charges. Same amount every month, no extras to pad the bill—unless it's an out of state trip. And _that_ goes to the tour group."

"New York to the Met this weekend. Mother would love to go," I sighed. "Maybe nothing _is_ going on. Maybe I'm just being overly suspicious."

"Even paranoids have enemies."

"But why would Shelly Romero pretend to be Neoma Keithley? I keep coming back to that."

"Speaking of which—you got another hour or two free?"

"I could. What's up?"

"Thought we'd drop by the real Neoma Keithley's."

I perked up. "Sure!" I hit the speed dial for the store. "Hey, Val, things under control?"

"We just finished story time, I think we had twice the normal crowd."

I winced guiltily. "Oooh. Sorry I left you hanging in the breeze."

"It was fine. Alan did the reading, they never so much as twitch when he's sitting there. We did just over two thou' sales during and after."

"Dang. I should stay out more often. Speaking of which—can you hold down the fort for another hour or three?"

"Sure," she said affably. "You shopping for a wedding dress?"

"It's—ah—one of the things on my list," I fibbed. I'd make sure to write it down so I could have a clean (belatedly) conscience.

"One of the things? When you're shopping for a wedding dress, that should be the only thing on your list that day."

"I'm just starting," I defended myself. "When I get more focused, then it will be the only thing on the list that day."

"Hey, you're the one who will end up getting married in jeans and a sweatshirt, not me. See you when you get here."

"I'll close," I offered.

"Sold."

Misty made relatively quick work of turning me from eighty-plus back to fifty-one and asked questions left and right. Unfortunately, my answers left and right were, "No clue" and "I dunno." Misty didn't seem to mind the lack of information. In fact, she was chipper about it. "Nancy Drew never got all the clues in the first chapter of the book," she said cheerfully. There was something heartening in the fact that Misty, my mother and I had _all_ grown up reading Nancy Drew mysteries.

/ / /

Neoma Keithley lived in a nice, middle-class neighborhood in the Bloomingdale area. Her house was small, but well kept. It was also powder-puff pink with white trim and looked like it belonged on a sentimental birthday card. A brick walkway bordered with flowers in a riot of shapes and colors completed the image.

The woman who answered the door didn't quite fit the house. I had a mental picture of a short, round, bespectacled, apron-clad, white-haired woman; I got the glasses right. Mrs. Keithley was tall, thin, wearing blue jeans and a madras plaid cotton shirt and her still half-black hair was butt-length and in a big, fat braid.

She actually recognized Mulder from his column in the paper, even though the photo "doesn't do you justice at all" and was thrilled to have him stop by.

"That series you wrote on the home for wayward girls was just outrageous! I mean, your reporting was top-notch—what they _did_ was outrageous. Your articles just made my blood boil. I'm so glad you exposed them!"

It was a huge scandal, sort of a local version of the Magdalen sisters' shameful tale. Mulder's reporting was fantastic, the writing should get him a Pulitzer Prize, but the story had left me literally sick.

Fortunately for my suddenly queasy stomach, Mulder didn't plan to rehash the tale. "I'm glad you found the series interesting, Mrs. Keithley," he said with a smile. "But today I'm here on a more pleasant topic. Your file at the _Post_ said 'no calls, ever' so I took the chance of stopping by—"

She looked disgusted. "Can't hear a blasted thing on the phone, so I let the answering machine take all of the calls."

"Ah. Well, _you_ were our grand prize winner in the holiday bake-off last year, and I just wanted to see how you're enjoying your kitchen." Hopefully she wouldn't ask why a news feature writer was interested in the home arts section all of a sudden.

She waved us in. "Oh, it's just wonderful!"

On the drive over, Mulder had mentioned that Mrs. Keithley had won a brand new kitchen—appliances and redecoration—for the Christmas Cookie Bake-off, her famous (infamous?) Chocolate Chipotle Chews taking the grand prize. (I remembered the recipe. It darn near burned off layers of skin in my mouth. The only people who liked it were Gibbs, Abby and my nephew, Kevin. All three of them eat foods that should come with a fire extinguisher.) For her creativity, she won a brand-new stove, fridge, dishwasher and freezer, plus mixer, blender, crockpot and a zillion other gadgets and small appliances.

"And a $250 gift card to Barnes and Noble for new cookbooks," she burbled. "This is the best prize I've _ever_ won!"

After a good ten minutes of oohing and aahing, she ushered us to the living room for coffee and brownies. (Just plain chocolate brownies. No chili peppers.) (They were out of this world.)

While we munched, we talked about all manner of things. I let Mulder lead the way; I wasn't sure what information he was looking for or how he planned to get it, so I played background.

The phone rang; after only two rings, it kicked over to the answering machine. "Do you need to get that?" Mulder asked politely.

She shook her head. "I can't hear the answering machine, either. My hearing aids work pretty well with normal conversation and even the television, but I just can't hear things worth a tinker's dam on the telephone or that silly machine. My granddaughter used to stop by two or three times a week to write out my messages. But she moved to New York—Sloan-Kettering—she's a nurse, you know—"

_No, we didn't._ But I swear I saw Mulder's ears come to a point. "Oh?" His casual tone was at odds with the interest in his eyes.

"Yes. I think she might have gone into nursing because she was named after me." She held up her hand in a 'hold on a sec' motion. She went over to a bookcase, pulled down a framed picture and brought it over. "That's Amanda at her capping ceremony." She pointed to the young woman on the stage; with all the white uniforms, it was hard to distinguish anything other than the fact that she had dark hair.

"I haven't seen a nurse in whites since _Emergency_ went off the air," I said.

Mrs. Keithley sighed. "Yes. But they still have them for capping ceremonies—even if caps are almost never worn any more, either."

"So… _Amanda_ was named for you? Is Neoma a nickname for Amanda?"

"No, no, Neoma is her middle name—Amanda Neoma. Her sister's middle name is from the other grandmother. Michelle Marie." There was only the slightest sniff. Grandmother rivalry?

"Family tradition?" Mulder asked amiably.

"Yes. Neoma goes by her middle name because she was sick to death of people singing that "Mandy" song to her." She looked puzzled for a moment. "Where was I? Oh, yes. Neoma always gave me my messages—most of my friends send me emails nowadays—"

I couldn't help but smile. Victoria was having trouble with a couple of cousins who were reluctant to join the computer age. She and Mrs. Keithley just might make good friends.

"—but with her moving to New York, she asked her sister to check in." Her look was both hurt and irritated. "My neighbor has ended up helping me. I don't think I see Marie more than once a month. If that."

"Maybe she's ill? Or—problems at work?" I suggested. I had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Keithley's namesake was the favorite.

"She works from home. She's an accountant. Although that husband of hers is probably causing all manner of problems for her." Now she looked more irritated than hurt. Scratch that. _Pissed._

"I'm sorry—" I started to reflexively say, but she apparently didn't hear me and kept on rolling.

"Snake oil salesman. Used car salesman," she corrected sharply. "And a bad one, to boot. Smarmy, greasy—my girls were inseparable before _he_ came into the picture. They used to sit in that chair and read together—Marie studied so hard, just so she could jump ahead and be in Neoma's class. They studied together, went to the same University—Neoma would test Marie in accounting, Marie would help Neoma write up her practice case notes. Such an eye for detail, that girl. And then they met Mr. Wonderful," she said sarcastically. "He dated Neoma, then dropped her for Marie—Neoma would have forgiven her sister, I'm sure she would have, but he occupied all of her time, cut her off from her family—oh, he's just a wolf in sheep's clothing—"

Something told me this was an old litany, that we were just a new audience. I caught Mulder's eye and he nodded slightly; I have a feeling we were on the same track. Mulder reached over for another brownie, turning his head slightly toward me as he did. "Michelle Marie—Shelly?" he whispered. Yep, we were on the same track.

As Mrs. Keithley took a breath, I jumped in. "So the girls were only a year apart? Did they look alike, too?"

"Oh, like two peas in a pod." She hunted in the crowd of photos and selected two more frames. "There they are in their favorite chair—" Same upholstery, even. Two girls, both with long dark braids, a huge book in their laps, the slightly elder one pointing to a page and apparently reading aloud. "And this was from Neoma's birthday." She showed us a picture of a crowd of people. "The year she brought _him_ to the party."

"Harvey Bains," I murmured. Even ten years back, Shelly and Martin were clearly recognizable.

Mrs. Keithley looked confused for a moment. "No… his name is Martin. Martin Romero, I'm sure of it."

"He just looks like someone we know," Mulder said smoothly.

/ / /

"Well, that explains how Shelly got her hands on Amanda _Neoma_ Keithley's credentials."

"Yeah, and as much alike a they look, nobody would think twice if they saw Neoma's driver's license in Shelly's hand, god knows it's easy enough to get a replacement license," I said. "But that still leaves us with _why?_"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

John dropped me off at the Gaslight; I felt a little sneaky, meeting him away from the store, but I didn't want to deal with the 'who was that, what are you doing' that would ensue. If it got out that I was poking into Shelly/Neoma, I would be tagged Nancy Drew (or worse) and never live it down. (It didn't matter that it was _my_ store.)

Across the street from the theatre I saw a small storefront with—hello—a wedding gown in the front bay window. Hmm. I left my van behind and crossed over; the sign over the door read _Fantasea_. The window boasted _Individual Designs for Formal and Special Occasions._ Worth a try.

There was only one clerk, a young woman in her late twenties, dressed in a plain black skirt and white blouse. "May I help you?"

I was going to say, "No, thank you, just browsing," but found myself saying I was engaged, no date set, first marriage, wanting a small, simple wedding and so on.

She listened, nodding every so often, and making little notes. "I have a couple of ideas…" She led me to a rack of white, off white, cream—dozens of bridal gowns.

_Don't hyperventilate!_ I scolded myself.

"Maybe this…"

Even to my untrained eye, it was… plain.

The young woman—whose nametag read Gayle—smiled. "Don't worry. This is just a basic shell. Blank canvas."

"Oh." Still uncertain, I trooped into the changing room and emerged swimming in fabric. I felt like I was playing dress-up in my Aunt Cecelia's clothes. (A real sweetheart, but about 4'9"—each way.) I continued my doubts as Gayle draped, dragged, pinned, folded, gathered and transformed a sea of watered silk into—"Wow!"

Okay, it was a rough draft. But it had gorgeous in it. A standing collar that flattened into a scalloped edge, a deep-V that ended in a fold through my cleavage, making it daring, but, at the same time, modest. I'd avoided Empire waistlines like the plague—contrary to what I've read, I find they tend to make short gals look _short_—but she tacked an overskirt of lace that left a front panel of plain silk and gave an illusion of height. She gave me two very different sleeves; I fell in love with the sweeping bat wing, even though it would play havoc with eating. (And the unfitted skirt would work even if I were marrying on my due date and carrying twins. Handy.)

"You like it?" Gayle asked with a not quite smug smile.

"Like it? I love it! I mean, I know this is a first draft, but I can see exactly where you're going. This is wonderful!"

She beamed at me. "Oh, thank you. Sometimes it takes a bit of explaining, some women expect to see the finished product, bang, right now. So. You said you don't have a date yet?"

"No…"

"How soon do you think you'll know?"

"Within the month?" I said hesitantly.

"Okay… what do you think the closest date might be? October? November?"

Visions of Abby's Halloween suggestion raced through my head. "November, maybe?"

"We're over the June rush. So long as you can give us a minimum one week's notice—three, if you go for December—we'll be fine."

"Would you like a deposit?" I was still twisting this way and that, admiring myself. Gosh. I actually looked pretty.

"We'd _love_ a deposit," Gayle said with a grin.

She helped me out of the dress, laden as it was with pins, whipped through measurements in record time and snipped fabric samples for me. "With the winter tint to the lace, you'll want to be careful to match your shoes," she said, copying my driver's license info.

"Oh! Wait! I'm moving." Gotta get my addresses changed on everything. Another "to do" list…

I wrote out Ducky's address on one of their business cards and she stapled it to her copy of the receipt. "Have you thought about bridesmaids' dresses?"

"Beyond 'not ugly'—no."

She laughed. "I like to think we specialize in 'not ugly.'" She pulled a book from the counter. "Here. Ideas," she said with a glint in her eye.

_Bad_ ideas. The pictures made me gasp or laugh in shock. Half a dozen women dressed as… angels? Or fairies? Okay, maybe if you're getting married at a fantasy and sci-fi convention… Good god, some of the, um, dresses make the corner pros look overly dressed. "_You Can Wear It Again_?" I read the title in disbelief. "Wanna bet?" Oh, god, the we-thought-we-were-so-hip dresses from the fifties and sixties. Oy. "Where did you find this?"

"A customer from a couple of years ago. Someone gave her a copy as a gag gift for her bridal shower. She though it was so funny, she bought a copy for us." She pulled out a different book, a large photo album, and flipped to a page. "There's her wedding pic."

"Nice." A little more formal than I like, but still lovely. Creamy-ivory leaning toward a very pale tan; the color was perfect with her skin tone, and the train would keep people at fifteen feet, easy. The bridesmaids' gowns were shimmery bronze covered with a flat gold chiffon, slick and stylish. "You actually _could_ wear that again, as opposed to the ones _I_ got stuck with."

"And each dress includes fifty dollars' worth of post-wedding re-work, so you don't show up at a party wearing the same dress as five other girls." Gayle turned the page. Two of the bridesmaids were in a photo taken in the store, laughing, arms linked; one had turned her gown into a mini-skirted dress, the extra skirt fabric becoming a draped wrap. The second girl had kept the length, but put in a side slit with an asymmetrical hem and turned the chiffon overskirt into an insert under the slit. Very different looks; very hot. Let's see… if we go from my sister-in-law, Barb, out to Abby—good luck covering _that_ spectrum!

I was a very happy camper when I got back to the store. With a clear conscience I was able to prattle on to Valerie about the dress I'd just ordered; she got into the swing of things, dragging out costume and fashion books and we spent the afternoon getting all girly-girly and giggling over websites with some truly gawdawful dresses. When Miyoko hunted me down for receipts that I forgot to put in the petty cash box ("It's deductible, it's deductible," she nagged.), she joined in the fun (showing me a side to her personality I'd've never guessed after knowing her for almost twenty years), describing dresses she had been stuck with over the years. We all agreed that the dresses were just the bride getting revenge for all the ugly dresses _she_ had been stuck wearing. When Ducky called to check on my thoughts about dinner, he was delighted to hear I'd started on dress plans, agreed that it sounded lovely, and laughed himself to tears over stories from bridesmaids' hell. All in all, a _very_ successful day.

* * *

><p>4<p> 


	5. Asses, Alligators, The Swamp

**Chapter Five: Asses, Alligators, The Swamp... You Know The Rest (****or, Don't Look At Me In That Tone Of Voice!)**

* * *

><p>Thursday was one of those wonderful nights that happen so often with Ducky. Great dinner (god, that man can cook), all of the females in residence got giggly and squealy over my not-bad drawings of my gown (Victoria was in transports), and Evelyn had scored a handful of tickets to a movie preview. We took up most of the center row and everyone had a blast. It turned out to be a part cartoonpart live-action picture about a princess who finds herself dumped out of happily-ever-after-land and stuck in modern day New York. (There was a scene with—ugh—cockroaches cleaning the bathroom and it was almost Ducky's undoing. Apparently all of us are roach-phobic and we all tried to huddle on his lap and cover our eyes. Okay, all but Suzy. She was busy laughing at the scene and laughing even harder at the five of us using poor Ducky as a shield. Whatever—it was a funny movie.) And Ducky got me to agree to meet him at NCIS for lunch the next day, promising a delightful surprise.

/ / / / /

"Boy, it's amazing what a botched romance can do to a person's cooking!"

Ducky grinned at me from across the table. He had insisted on ordering lunch for me, a kind of 'me, Tarzan; you, Jane' misogynistic act he'd never put on before. But I was pretty sure it sprang from a desire to surprise rather than suppress, so I went along for the ride. And, boy, was I glad I did. One of the Friday specials was mushroom cheese ravioli. The pasta was as light as air, the filling delicately spiced; the sauce was a marinara with a bit of alfredo—to die for. Instead of garlic bread, the chef had cut thin rounds of French bread about the diameter of an orange juice can, drenched them in very garlicy butter and baked them until they were not quite crunchy all the way through. (Ducky and I each had a number of slices; our good-bye kiss wouldn't get ugly.) "I told you so," he said, as self-satisfied as though he had made it with his own two hands.

"How's dessert around here?" Last time I'd eaten there, it had been as bad as the entrees—which had been pretty bad.

"Avoid the pudding. It's canned. But the cakes and pies are quite good—though nothing compared to yours, my dear."

"Smooth talker." I opted for the spice cake with buttercream icing and was pleased with the result. "Is it me, or does the place seem empty today?"

"Well, we're past the lunch rush. But if you mean Gibbs and company—"

"Yeah, there was this big empty spot in the middle of the room when we went past."

"They've been out all morning."

"And you didn't need to go with them?"

"Believe it or not, there are crimes without a body, my dear."

"True."

A faint trill of _Scotland, the Brave_ came from Ducky's lab coat pocket. "Abby," he said in surprise, looking at the screen. "Hello, Abby, what—" He broke off and I could hear hysterical babbling from his phone. "Abby—_Abby_—Abigail—!" He tried repeatedly to break in, to no avail. She was apparently breathing through her ears.

Finally she slowed enough that you could sort of make out some of the words. "—so much for never be unreachable, I must have left a _hundred_ messages, it goes to voice mail, he's outside, _in my lab_! He's not touching anything, but he scares me, Ducky, he _scares_ me, he's cold, like a snake, no, not like a snake, I _like_ snakes, he says I've given money to Hamas, I'd _never_ do that, Ducky, you know I never would, I can't go to Gitmo, it's too hot, I'm not up on my vaccines, I didn't _do_ anything, Gibbs would make him go away, but Gibbs doesn't answer—"

"Abby, _Abby_—have you called the Director?"

"She isn't here! She's gone for the day, _Gibbs_ doesn't answer, _Tony_ doesn't answer, _Timmy_ doesn't answer, _Ziva_ doesn't answer, _nobody is answering_! I can't go to jail, Ducky, I just _can't_, I didn't do anything wrong—!"

"Does she have a lawyer?" I whispered.

"Abby—_Abby_! Do you have an attorney?"

"_No!_"

"Tell her not to say _anything._" (For Abby, this would be difficult.) "She has the right to remain silent." (Hmm. Maybe not. When I was Ray's study buddy through law school, I learned a lot about Miranda and constitutional rights (even though I forgot it all when Gibbs was interrogating _me_)—but if Abby is being accused of funding a terrorist organization (WTF?) does she still have those rights?) "Hey, hey—does NCIS have a legal counsel she can use?"

Ducky interrupted her most recent flood of words. "Abby, listen to me. Call Agent Lee in legal. I'm on my way, but in the meantime, _call Agent Lee_."

"And don't talk until then," I added again, but Ducky had already shut his phone.

"No worry on that score," he said, hastily taking out trays to the return area. "Well, nothing that could be understood, anyway."

It was a long walk from the café level of the building to the one elevator bay that services the forensic laboratory and autopsy. While we waited for the elevator I said, "Should I—" I pointed toward the parking lot.

"You don't _have_ to leave… I'm sure this is a miscommunication of some sort, a minor matter that will be cleared up in a trice. Just a misunderstanding. And I am loath to part company yet." He gave me a sweet smile as we entered the elevator.

"Just so long as I don't get in trouble."

"You're with me. You won't get in trouble." He punched the button for the lab level. "What is the matter?" He looked at me with mild concern.

If I had been walking, I would have stopped short. As it was, my head jerked up and I gave a tiny gasp. "Nothing. I just remembered something I forgot. No biggie."

_I was Ray's study buddy through school and I ended up with a heck of a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo in my head. I wouldn't be able to throw my weight around in court—but I could pull off working in a law office, filing motions, writing appeals and contracts… and I could __**definitely**__ bullshit my way around people who aren't in the profession. I'll bet someone who was her sister's study buddy through nursing school could fake her way, too—especially just a companion position…_

By the time we got downstairs, Abby was huddled in a corner, talking with an attractive young Asian woman—Agent Lee, I supposed. Their voices were low, but Abby still looked distraught; she was hugging her stuffed hippo, Bert, and he was farting like crazy. Leaning against one of the lab tables was a man I'd never seen before—indeterminate age (old looking 30s, young looking 50s?), balding, intense gaze; not bad looking… but kind of unnerving. He looked almost amused by the scene. When we entered the lab, he raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly. "Dr. Mallard." I was surprised; he pronounced it correctly. He gave me a cursory glance, and I resisted the urge to hide behind Ducky; this guy creeped me out.

"Mr. Kort," Ducky said politely. Politely—and that was it. And despite Mr. Kort's second glance toward me, Ducky ignored the rules of society and didn't introduce us. Frankly, I was just as happy he didn't.

"Ducky!" Abby ran over and threw her arms around him. "I'm _not_ a terrorist sympathizer, I'm _not_! Tell him!"

"Everything will be fine," he said soothingly, patting her back.

Despite the stress of the moment, I smiled at that. _He is going to make a fantastic daddy._ I let my mind wander for a moment—then shook my head to clear the mist.

"—in Baton Rouge, I've given them money for two years now, it's for children displaced by Katrina, they do _wonderful_ work, it's _not_ a terrorist organization, it's run by _nuns_—!"

Agent Lee had quietly joined us. "Apparently, the group is laundering money for Hamas," she said in a low voice.

"_**No!**_" Abby was absolutely distraught, verging on hysterics.

"Yes," Mr. Kort said coolly. "Your name came up as a regular donor—"

Abby wheeled on him, giving Bert a big squeeze. "Of course!" He looked disgusted at the noise from the hippo; I had to turn aside to hide my giggle. This was serious—I shouldn't be laughing. "I have them bill my credit card every month!" Abby continued. "They bill my NPR and PBS on my credit card, are you investigating me for them, too? It's easier for my tax records!" Her phone rang and she snatched it from the counter. "Gibbs! Oh, Gibbs, _help_!"

"Abby! Abby, what's wrong!" came tinnily from the speaker. "I've got ten messages and none of them make sense!"

"Where were you?" she demanded. "You say 'never be unreachable' and then—"

"Abby, that is _not important_. What the hell is going on?"

She ran into her office. Even through the glass, we could hear high and low notes of distress, even though the words were indistinguishable. Eventually she stopped talking and listened. And listened. And listened. She nodded, nodded again, nodded a third time and shut her phone. Looking decidedly calmer, she strode from her office and walked over to where Mr. Kort was still lounging against one of the counters. "Gibbs says not to talk to you. At all," she said with great formality. (She didn't say "so there" but I'm sure she was thinking it.)

"Gibbs can—"

I don't know if he was going to say "say whatever he wants" or "kiss my ass." He broke off as Abby twisted her fingers on her lips and flicked the tips—locking her lips and throwing away the key. For good measure, Bert farted again. (If you're skating on thin ice, you may as well dance.) Agent Lee looked mildly horrified, but I think she was smiling, too.

"Miss Sciuto—" Mr. Kort had a darkling look that gave _me_ pause, but Abby just turned her back on him, humming under her breath and smiling.

I leaned close to Ducky's ear. "Now what?" I murmured.

He lifted a shoulder. "We wait for Gibbs." His reply was almost as inaudible as my comment had been.

We didn't have long to wait.

It was less than ten minutes until Gibbs came storming into the lab, the rest of his team scurrying to keep up. (I'm sure they knew their presence was not needed—but, like me, they were dying to know what the hell was going on.) I've heard Gibbs drives like the proverbial bat out of hell; they could have been down the block, they could have been outside the White House.

Gibbs quickly took in Agent Lee, Mr. Kort and yours truly. "What is this, open house?" he growled. This time I did try to hide behind Ducky.

"Gibbs!"

"Miss Sciuto—"

Gibbs held up a hand. "Mr. Kort. Wait."

(One of my first impressions of Gibbs was a dog handler barking commands at me. I was grateful to see him do that to everyone else—friend, foe, colleague or combatant.)

Gibbs grabbed Abby's shoulders, anchoring her a bit. "Calmly. Concisely."

She took a deep breath. "Okay," she said _very_ calmly. "Back. In. Two. Thousand. Five. Sister. Bernadette. Told. Me. About. _Maison. Pour. Les. Enfants_. For. Children. Displaced. By. Hurricane. Katrina."

I figured at this rate our kid would be entering preschool by the time she finished her tale.

Apparently Gibbs had a similar time sense because he waved his hand in a circular 'speed it up' motion.

"—foster care was overburdened and even with charities helping out with clothes and stuff—"

Another hand circle. Foolish man.

"—already felt like outsiders, it's hard when kids are 'different' I don't care about Dolly Parton's 'coat of many colors' that's _crap_ when you have no home, no toys, no clothes, _nothing,_ so it was little things like Elmo for little kids, video games for the older kids, makeup kits for the teenage girls, makeup is _very_ important—"

"_Concisely,_ Abs," he quietly reminded her.

"—I'm not a terrorist, Gibbs, I'm _not_!"

Gibbs turned on Mr. Kort and cocked his head; _well?_

"Apparently the group _is_ helping out the little rugrats," he said, his voice sounding almost bored. "But almost three-fourths of the money eventually ends up in the Gaza strip."

"No!" Abby protested.

"Yes," he countered.

"Aah, come on, Kort… You know how easy the scammers have it. How many fake charities set up after 9-11?"

"Anyone making large or regular contributions is suspect—"

"You're going to arrest Sister Bernadette _too_?" Abby's yell ended in a wail.

"Come on, Trent, does Abby _look_ like a terrorist?" DiNozzo joshed.

"Oh, DiNozzo… _all_ of you look like potential terrorists to me," Kort shot back with a twisted smile. He turned back on Abby. "So. Where do I find this… Sister Bernadette?"

"You're going to arrest a nun?" She grabbed Gibbs' arm. "He can't arrest a nun!"

"We just want to talk to her, find out where _she_ found out about this group. Trace it back to the source."

"Like playing telephone as a kid—only in reverse." McGee immediately looked like he regretted saying anything.

Gibbs was concentrating on Abby. "Give him the number, Abs."

"But—"

"Give him the number." He leaned closer. "What I remember from the nuns I've known, Kort will come out worse than Sister Bernie," he said softly.

Abby gave him a ghost of a smile. She clicked through her phone and handed it to Gibbs. Gibbs in turn showed Kort the screen. Kort entered the number on his own phone. "Thank you," he said with extreme civility.

"You _know_ she's not a terrorist."

Kort just smiled faintly and flicked an eyebrow.

"This could have been accomplished with a phone call."

"Ah, Gibbs…" He shut his phone and shoved it in his pocket. "Then I wouldn't have had the chance to see all of your smiling faces." With a bemused look to all of us, he strolled casually from the lab.

"You might want to fumigate," DiNozzo suggested.

"Gibbs—it was a lie? It was all a lie?" Abby's voice broke on the last word.

"Kort said they were helping the kids—just not as much as you'd think."

"She sent me letters. And drawings." Gibbs' arm around her shoulders, Abby let him guide her to her lab chair. "She even made me this dream catcher." She reached out and tapped the lacy circle pinned next to the portrait of her with bat wings and fangs. "Or did she buy it at Wal-mart?"

"It's probably real," he said soothingly.

"I just feel so… _used_," she said. Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

"And when you donate, you get on every hit list out there," DiNozzo observed. "That's why I keep my money." Ziva gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs and he winced.

"It's as bad as ordering from a catalogue," Agent Lee said. The group glanced at her. She suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I… need to get back…" She gestured vaguely and slipped out the door.

"You gonna be okay, Abs?" Gibbs asked quietly. (From here on out, if I ever think unkindly on Gibbs, I'm going to remember how he treats Abby—like the daughter he never had. He has his good points.) Abby nodded slightly.

"There's a new guy in MTAC. I heard he's a warlock or a white witch or something like that. Maybe he can turn Kort into a frog?" DiNozzo suggested. "Um—not a frog," he quickly corrected. "A rock. As in 'dumb as a.' Um—skip it. Never mind." He flashed a too-bright smile. He nervously jerked his thumb toward the elevator and all but fell over himself getting out of the lab.

McGee and Ziva stared after him, looked at each other, then looked at Gibbs. "Maybe he needs to switch to decaf," Gibbs muttered. "Okay. Emergency over. Back to work."

"Thanks, Gibbs," Abby said, still low. "I guess I shouldn't call Sister? That would be, what, hindering a federal investigation or something?"

Gibbs patted her shoulder. "I'm sure Sister Bernadette can handle the situation." As he passed by Ducky, he caught his eye and jerked his head almost infinitesimally toward Abby; Ducky nodded. "Okay, children, recess is over, there are reports to write," he said, striding out.

Ziva and McGee both paused long enough to give Abby brief hugs of encouragement, then hurried after Gibbs.

Abby sat with her elbows on the table, chin propped in her cupped hands. "I feel so stupid," she mumbled.

"Oh, Abby… you are _not_ stupid," Ducky said gently, patting her back. "It sounds like someone took a legitimate cause and diverted it."

I moved to her other side. "And maybe the justice department can, I dunno—get the money back and get it into the kids' hands?"

"Maybe." She sighed. "Would somebody please change the subject? This is all too depressing."

I racked my brain. "Hey. I have a wedding dress started."

She looked at me in surprise. "You're making your own wedding dress?"

"No, no, I found this nice shop over by the Gaslight—"

Her eyes lit up "Oh! How did that go?"

"Well, she started out with what she called a "shell"—just a basic dress in this really soft watered silk—"

"No, no—I mean—" She gave me a dramatic look. "The Murders of the Rue Morgue at the Old Folks' Home."

I froze. Oh, crap.

"Misty told me all about it last night, we went out to the movies, she showed me the pictures—you make a really nice old lady, you should do theatre—"

"Abby—"

"I'm sorry, Abigail—'a really nice old lady?'" Ducky asked, his voice deceptively calm.

_The shit is about to hit the fan._

"Oh, yeah! Misty did a great job on Fran—how is she, anyway?—but Fran was almost a caricature, Sandy looked perfect, just the standard-bearer for a nice lady in her 80s—"

"It was just a little—um—visit—" (Yeah, 'visit' sounds much better than 'reconnaissance.') "—to There's No Place Like Home. The whole why did Neoma stop asking Mother to move there once she found that you control the bank account—it—uh—it sounded hinky—?" It had never occurred to me to tell Misty to keep this under her hat.

"Hinky?" Abby laughed. "_Misty_ said that _you _said that _Evelyn_ said that _Charlie_ told her that she thinks people are being bumped off for their money out there. Greed, one of the oldest motives around…"

"They aren't!" I quickly said. Didn't help.

"Well, you come down to see me, my dear," Ducky said, giving her a kiss on the temple. "Tea will make things look better, I'm sure. I'll have it ready at the top of the hour." Thirty-five minutes away. Groan. "I haven't had a chance to hear all the details of Sandy's visit." (Yeah, and Sandy was counting on you not hearing all the details of her visit. Or any of them.)

Still smiling, he ushered me from the lab (the grip on my elbow was pretty firm) and into the elevator. Halfway to the main level he smacked the power switch and stopped the elevator between floors and turned toward me. I had a vague déjà vu feeling, channeling _Star Trek II_—only he wasn't Kirk, I wasn't Saavik and I was pretty sure our conversation wouldn't be so congenial.

Even in the half-light, I could tell he was furious. "So. You took a little jaunt into the city yesterday, eh?"

I blushed. "Um—"

"_Are you out of your mind?_" he roared. "You think something criminal is going on and you walk right into the lion's den? You risked your life, the life of our child—for what? Do you read any of those mysteries you sell?"

("Do any of you _watch_ the show?" Apparently we were doing _Galaxyquest_, not _Star Trek II_.) "Trust me. They weren't going to shoot me over crab salad."

"Oh. Did they promise they'd be on their best behavior?" he asked in a mocking tone.

I bristled a little. "Sarcasm ill becomes you."

"I would say that stupidity ill becomes _you_, but you flaunt it so that I can't!" he snapped.

My mouth fell open in shock. "Donald Mallard!" I all but screeched. I was starting to breathe hard and was _this close_ to saying something I knew I'd regret. Instead, I reached past him and slammed the power switch back on.

Ducky immediately switched it back off. "If you have suspicions, go to the police, call Gibbs, call the National Guard for the love of heaven but don't be so stupid as to—"

There's that word again. Glowering, I flicked the power back on again. "I am _not_ stupid." (Switch it back off again, I'm gonna pull the emergency bell.)

The elevator arrived at the main lobby level. Just as the doors started to open, he said, "We _will_ continue this discussion tonight," in a very hard voice.

_Goody. I can't wait._

/ / /

It's _really_ hard to have a fight when you have almost half a dozen people nearby and you're trying to keep your argument off their radar. But, by god, we were doing it.

"Why in the name of all that is holy would you go there in the first place?" Ducky's voice was so low it was verging on telepathy—about 15db, in my opinion, barely louder than the hum of a light bulb—said in passing as he headed for the kitchen.

"Because Neoma Keithley turned out to be a fake." Sweet tone of voice, close to the same volume, said as I loaded the dishwasher with the teacup and saucer Mother had left at her bedside. I refrained from slamming the door.

"And it didn't occur to you that to protect that masquerade she might have harmed you? _Killed_ you?" He was so pissed, his eyes were such a dark blue they were verging on purple.

I put my hands on my hips. "When we went to the home, we didn't know that." Amazing how sharp you can make your voice while remaining barely audible.

"What the bloody—"

The kitchen door opened. Ducky broke off and I dropped my hands to my sides. "Hey, Imp. What's up?"

Charlie looked at us in turn. "Grandma is just wondering what you plan for dinner," she said, exceedingly polite.

_Cooked goose? _I thought.

"Chicken parmigiana, salad, baked squash," Ducky rattled off.

"Thank you," she said with a slight inclination of her head. She waited for a moment, looking like she was mulling something over—then walked over, gave Ducky a hug, walked over to me, gave me a hug, and left the kitchen—silent all the while.

"Subtle," I muttered.

"Well, if she knew what you did, even Charlotte could see the foolishness."

"Thereby telling me that a nine year old is smarter than I am! Thanks!" I didn't bother to keep my voice down. I threw my dishtowel on the counter and stalked out of the kitchen—the back door I _did_ slam.

Dinner took _forever_.

Ducky and I managed not-too-stilted comments; the majority of the conversation was carried by Ev and Lily, with Suzy, Charlie and Mother chiming in every so often. I was _pretty_ sure Mother hadn't picked up on the simmering storm—and I was equally sure the other four _had_.

Most of the conversation centered around Charlie's going away party the next day; I kept a steno pad next to my plate, jotting down reminders as I thought of them or as someone tossed out a thought. It made it easy to let my mind wander a bit and start seeing things from Ducky's point of view. Mellowing a bit, I'd glance his way—and the set of his jaw would just get me pissed off all over again.

_He __does__ have a point.  
><em>_(Oh, please. I was in no danger.)  
><em>_Come on, they're targeting people who can afford that place twice over. There's big money riding on this.  
><em>_(And I have no idea what 'this' is.)  
><em>_And __they__ have no idea you __don't__. Wouldn't you be a little paranoid if you were running a criminal operation?_

_Man. It's gonna suck for either of us to apologize…_

After dinner, I kept out of sight. First I headed to the garage, planning on cleaning like crazy—only to find someone had beaten me to it. Probably Ducky; both of us clean when we're pissed off. The backyard was spotless; tables and chairs were ready to be set out in the morning—in addition to the odd spectrum of adults, Charlie had a slew of friends coming ("Just as odd as I am," she happily informed us). Good; the larger the crowd, the easier it would be for Ducky to be one place and me in another—in case we were still at odds with each other.

As I walked back past the house, I could see him in the kitchen, frowning as he rinsed dishes. Great; I can't even go clean up after dinner. I slipped in the front door and went upstairs.

We had told everyone the dress code was casual, happy, party clothes—I couldn't wait to see what Abby would wear. (Or Gibbs, for that matter.) I poked around in "my" closet (I was slowly but surely taking over the closet in the guest room) and dithered like I've never dithered before. Not shorts. Nothing white. (Gibbs had immediately volunteered to run the grill; Ducky jumped on it, swearing nobody could grill like Leroy Jethro Gibbs—and I had visions of gloppy, sloppy burgers ruining my pristine white jeans.) No skirts—it was a humid weekend coming up. What I _really_ wanted was something festive and tasteful—but with the potential to make Mrs. Kemmelbacher choke on her potato salad. Sadly, nothing fit all three requirements—and out of respect for everyone else, I wouldn't wear any of the t-shirts with slogans that were a hard slam against religion that would definitely kill her off. Jeans and… not a t-shirt, I wear those all the time. Ah—perfect. The every-color-of-the-rainbow gauze top I'd picked up on our pre-Book Expo jaunt to Canada. I glanced down at my still-flat (relatively speaking) stomach and couldn't help but smile; I had come home with more than the usual couple-dozen boxes of books this time, that was for sure. I sighed; _guess I'll bite the bullet and—_

"Mother!" I gasped. I dropped the clothes and leaped for the door. "What are you doing upstairs! You came up on your own? Oh—!"

She pooh-poohed me. Literally. "Oh, pooh. I'm perfectly able to come upstairs when I want to."

"You could have just sent Charlotte up," I fussed.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Little pitchers have big ears," she said with a dark look. "There's no reason Charlotte needs to be exposed to adult squabbles and dirty laundry."

_Ouch_. I winced.

She sat on the spare bed and patted the comforter. Obediently, if reluctantly, I sat. "What has he done?" she sighed.

_Groan_.

She looked absolutely distraught. "Oh, Cassandra. You—you aren't going to cry off, are you?" I looked at her blankly. "Cancel the wedding?" she whispered, after a glance toward the door.

"Oh—oh, no, no, nothing like that, everything is good." ("In our family, we don't divorce our men—we bury 'em!" Ruth Gordon's line from _Lord Love a Duck_ popped into my mind and I stifled a giggle. Good grief; I'm turning into Tony DiNozzo's twin.) "You remember—I drew a picture of my gown?"

She smiled in delight. "And it shall be _lovely_, Cassandra! You'll make a beautiful bride."

"And we'll get an equally pretty mother-of-the-groom dress for you," I promised.

"No one will outshine the bride," she said, kissing my cheek.

"Thank you, Mother." I actually blushed.

"I was so worried…" she sighed.

Oh, dear. Better start working on that apology.

"I was afraid Donald's brother might have caught your fancy."

"No, no—" I stopped short. "Hunh?" I shook my head. "Sorry—I mean—brother? Donald has a _brother_?" (Since when?)

"Oh, yes. He works for the government, too. I don't see him often, perhaps once every few years or so…"

"I—ah—oh. Okay. Well, um—what's his name?"

She frowned. "My gracious. For the life of me, I can't remember," she said, clearly astonished. (Hey, my mother used to confuse me with my cousin Trixie. In her defense, we _did_ look a lot alike.) "How surprising. But—it's not important, dear. So long as you're still smitten with Donald."

I managed to not laugh. "Yes. I am." Smitten with, pissed off at, you name it.

"Good." She leaned close. "Don't go to bed angry," she whispered. She straightened up. "Charlotte is going to read _The Grand Sophy_ to me. Would you care to join us?"

"Maybe?" I managed. I was still trying to catch up on our conversation. She smiled happily, gave me another buss on the cheek for good measure and toddled from the room. I sat for several minutes; when Allen Funt didn't pop out of the closet, I scooped my clothes up from the floor, left them on the bed and wandered from the room, literally colliding with Ducky in the hall.

He still looked pissed—but his expression changed to mild concern as he looked at me. "What's wrong?"

"I'm—not sure—" I said slowly.

He quickly pulled me into our bedroom and shut the door. "Are you ill? Are you in pain?"

"No, no—I'm fine—I just had a… _strange_… conversation with Mother."

"And this differs from the rest of your conversations with her _how_?"

"Well—this is the first time she's mentioned your _brother_," I said with a questioning look.

I was half-expecting, 'Argh! She spilled the family secret before our nuptials! My evil twin, Skippy, has ruined my life again!' either in melodrama or a more truthful variant. But all I got was a baffled, "Brother? I haven't any brother. I'm an only child."

"Well, Mother thinks you have a brother," I said with a small laugh. "He works for the government, 'too.'" I made quote marks in the air.

Light dawned. "Oh, good heavens. They were all watching the Sleuth channel when I arrived home. _The Man From U.N.C.L.E._," he filled in.

Ah. Yeah—from his pictures in the photo album, back in the 60s and 70s—yeah, there was a definite resemblance. I shook my head in amusement.

"Oh, Mother…"

"And—she said not to go to bed angry," I said hesitantly.

He sighed and I could see the still simmering anger fade. "Oh… Cassandra," he said in almost the same tone.

I all but fell into his arms and our apologies tangled in the air. Tears on both sides, salty kisses seasoning the mix and can't-let-go hugs bracketing the whole.

"I could barely concentrate all day, I kept envisioning worse and worse scenarios—"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—it's just bugging me—Neoma was trying so hard—" I gasped. "I told you her name's not Neoma—"

"Yes—" He frowned and walked us over to sit on the foot of the bed. "Tell me everything that happened." I hesitated. "I promise—no more yelling." He brought my hands up and kissed them.

I started with my phone call to John Mulder a few weeks ago, covered his trip the other day, the photographs I'd looked at, and finished with our trips to the facility and the real Neoma Keithley. And I swore that from here on out, I'd keep him in the loop no matter how trivial it was.

"Thank god she didn't do any real nursing care—"

"Amen to that."

"But why would she do this in the first place?"

I shrugged, resisting the temptation to say 'I told you so.' Now he was as curious as I was. "I wonder if Suzy ever ran into Shelly?"

"Or, given their ages—if Suzy ever crossed paths with the real Neoma Keithley," Ducky suggested.

"Hmm…"

/ / /

We stopped by the kitchen on the way to the living room. There had been plenty of dessert left over—key lime chiffon pie (courtesy Lily) (she was teaching Mother and Charlie how to make it and there were _three_ for heaven's sake)—and Ducky and I both wanted seconds before joining whatever game was in progress.

My hand slipped while slicing and I ended up with a piece of pie twice what I had planned. "Dang it." I moved the slice aside and made to cut in half.

Ducky grinned. "We could _share_…"

So some fifteen minutes later when Charlie stumbled in for seconds of her own (and a slice for her grandma), she discovered us feeding the last bites of pie to each other and being silly as all get-out. "Oh!" she said with a delighted smile and started to back out of the kitchen.

"No need to flee," Ducky laughed. "Were you here on a particular errand?"

"Pie?" she asked meekly. "Two slices?"

"How large?"

"Grandma would like 'a sliver,'" she said. She accepted the first plate with a slice about an inch wide. "That would be fine," she said when he stopped the knife at the midpoint of the size we'd ended up with. "Thank you!" She took the second plate and flew out of the kitchen.

"Our squabble was the six o'clock news—this should be an emergency bulletin break-in," Ducky predicted.

Close. When we joined the others in the living room, everyone was smiling like they were in a political ad flogging how wonnnnnnnderful candidate X is. Charlie was snuggled in a corner of the sofa, reading to an enraptured Victoria and Suzy, Ev and Lily were in the middle of a game of Clue.

Make that the end of a game of Clue. "Mrs. White, conservatory, wrench," Suzy rattled off.

Lily opened the envelope and sighed. "I don't want to play with you, you always win."

"Mommy—be a gracious loser," came floating from a corner of the sofa and then Charlie was back reading Mother's be-all-end-all favorite Regency romance.

Charlie's tone had been as teasing as Lily's had been. "It's just a variant on logic puzzles," Suzy said, unruffled. She glanced up. "Joining us?"

"Sure." I plopped on the floor and Ducky sat on the couch, right angle to me. "Hey, Suzy," I said casually. "You know the nurse who was here before you?"

She frowned as she shuffled the cards. "I'm sure they mentioned her name, but it escapes me right now."

"Neoma Keithley?" I suggested. Evelyn rolled her eyes.

Suzy thought for a moment. "Thirty, thirty-five, dark hair? Quiet? Kind of—" She searched for the right word. "Quirky?"

"That's the one."

"Met her a couple of times at the agency. I was expecting someone else—I worked with a Neoma at Walter Reed, gosh, thirty years ago? We used to trade recipes, that was why I remembered her. She—the younger one—said that was her grandmother. Not very chatty—junior, that is."

Now I was doubly glad not to have asked Suzy to be our spy. "Runs in the family." I shivered. Neoma/Shelly had said something similar.

"No argument from me. My mother was a nurse, two of my three aunts were nurses, the third taught nursing at GW, my uncle was a nurse and my grandmother was a doctor."

"Your _grandmother_?" I repeated.

"Yep. Women in med school were _not_ common back then. One of her professors actually said to her face, 'You're just here to land a husband. Why don't you drop out and let a gentleman more deserving of the spot step in?'" She quickly dealt out the cards. "She graduated third in her class," she added with a smug look.

"So there," I said and Suzy laughed. For the next minute or two we made little x's in little boxes on our play sheets. "So. You ever hear of a place called There's No Place Like Home?" I rolled a 5 and handed the die to Ducky.

"Retirement community, minor nursing home, exemplary Alzheimer's care," she said promptly. "High marks across the board." Her brow creased and she glanced at Victoria and back to us. "You're not—"she said softly.

"Oh, no, no—" Both Ducky and I hurried to assure/reassure her. Ducky rolled a 6.

"I was just curious because—Neoma—" I stumbled over the name. "—was trying very hard to get Victoria to move into there." She gave me a 'go on, go on' look. "She stopped pushing when she discovered all the money is in Ducky's name." I nodded my head in his direction. Suzy frowned more. "Did you ever hear anything about her and No Place at the agency?"

"No—but they'd like to know she's poaching in their waters, I'm sure." Lily had rolled a 1 and started her play. Suzy waited for Ev to play and to move her own marker as well before continuing. "I did find it a little puzzling," she said, handing me the dice.

"What was that?" I moved three squares (big whup) and passed the dice to Ducky.

"The coordinator at CompanionAbles tried to get Neoma to sign up for cases with more medical need but she refused. She said she only wanted companion posts, that she needed some "de-stressing" time. I'm here because they're understaffed and don't _have_ a CNA to send out—but she was flat-out asking for only CNA positions."

Ducky and I exchanged a glance, one that wasn't missed by Suzy Sharp Eyes.

She cast her eyes toward the corner where Victoria was a rapt audience for Charlie doing all the voices in her favorite book. "Care to explain that?"

I looked at Ducky and he sighed. "I want you to ignore your instinctive response," he said, voice low. Suzy nodded slowly, eyes wary. "Cassandra has discovered that Neoma—the Neoma who worked here, the granddaughter of the Neoma you knew—is not the real Neoma."

Suzy paled. "She's—an imposter?" She managed to keep her voice as low as Ducky's.

"Her sister," I supplied. "Shelly. Her sister, Amanda Neoma, is the nurse. Shelly studied with her sister in college, so she knows the lingo, knows the procedures. She's smart enough to pass and smart enough to not take a posting beyond her abilities."

Suzy was furious and working to keep her voice down. "But it could end up beyond her abilities!" Her voice was low—and hard. "What would have happened if Victoria had taken a fall—or—or a heart attack—"

"I have someone at The Post who is working on this—a friend of Lily's. There's something sneaky going on and I want to find out what it is."

"Dr. Mallard, I _cannot_ allow her to put patients at risk!"

Ducky sighed. "I understand your feelings. I've been trying to find out a way of alerting CompanionAbles, of alerting the authorities, without spooking Shelly. Patients at the home could be at risk if we do. We daren't chance a—a Jonestown ending if they feel their exploits have been compromised."

"But to have her out there—"

We were all ignoring the game. "Hey, this is a long shot." Lily leaned forward. "I could call in, say I remembered her from being here and I could use a companion around the house while I'm recovering."

Ev looked skeptical. "You? Need help? Nobody would ever buy it."

"Nobody who knows me well, maybe. She doesn't. And when I get up in the morning and don't put on my face, you know I look like death warmed over in a cold oven. I can 'play sick,'" Lily said with a shade of defensiveness in her voice.

"_You_ could make it convincing," Ducky said with a small nod to Evelyn.

"I?" she said doubtfully. "How?"

"You could call in instead of Lily. Say that you're concerned she's trying to do too much… I could call Dr. Sheldon and put a bug in his ear."

"Hopefully she's not on another case," Suzy fretted.

"Well, she wasn't on assignment yesterday. She was at the home—and not in uniform."

"You _went_ there?" Lily gasped. She and Ev turned and looked at each other then back at me. The subtitle was plainly, 'No wonder Ducky was pissed at her.' For the second time in an hour, I gave a blow-by-blow description of the past few days (minus the pregnancy tests, of course). Suzy looked slightly mollified—though I'm sure it re-stressed Ducky, knowing Shelly and I had passed within inches of each other.

"What do you think is going on?" Shelly asked.

I spread my hands and shrugged. "No clue. It doesn't sound deadly—Mulder checked, they don't have a high number of deaths, and none seem suspicious. I'm thinking financial—they ask for everything but your blood type and DNA on their paperwork—but nobody we talked to is being double billed or anything like that. Maybe identity theft? Open up cards in the patients' names? They're allowed to get mail there, it would be easy to divert statements—"

"That's actually a good idea," Evelyn said.

"'Actually?'" I bristled.

"No insult meant—jeez, you're touchy lately," Ev said, giving me a speculative look.

"I rather raked her over the coals today," Ducky said quickly. "Quite ungentlemanly and unkind. And uncalled-for."

Way to go, Ducky. Neatly diverting her suspicions over my emotional state and taking the blame at the same time.

Ev lifted an eyebrow. "We, uh, figured that out."

"All's forgiven," I said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

"So." Ev pointed to Ducky. "You call Dr. Sheldon." She pointed to herself. "I'll call Dr. Sheldon. I'll call CompanionAbles."

"Question." Suzy held up her hand. "If Shelly is using CompanionAbles to troll for wealthy clientele for the home—won't she turn down the assignment?"

"Maybe," I admitted. "But look at it from management's view—customer calls in with a lightweight assignment, specifically asks for one employee—and that employee says no? Unless the employee has one hell of a good reason for refusing, my radar would go nuts. And that's exactly what Shelly wants to avoid."

"Good point," Suzy acknowledged. "Hold that thought." She pulled out her cell phone and put in a speed dial code. "Hey, Phoebs, it's Suzy Bailey." She listened a minute, then laughed. "No, I love it! Dr. Mallard is a doll, I adore Victoria—everyone here is wonderful." The 'doll' ducked his head and blushed. "I have a question. Someone who met my predecessor is in need of a nurse-companion for a bit. Nothing medical, really—just recovery from surgery and she's trying to do too much too soon. Her family wants to bring someone in, they're going to get an official order from her physician—but she was very taken with Neoma—why?" She looked panicked for a moment.

"Quite. Unruffled. Calm. Competent." Ducky rattled off adjectives.

"She was very calm, very quiet, that's what this patient needs. Not happy-go-lucky like I am." She frowned. "Methodical?" All of us nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, that was a _big_ plus." She cocked her head. "Oh. Oh, okay, I'll let her know. Right. Thanks, Phoebe." She shut the phone. "There's No Place Like Home put in a request for 'Neoma' a couple of weeks ago. She'll be there until the end of summer."

"She's not masquerading as Neoma—Romero introduced her as his wife, and a number of the residents know her as Shelly. No uniform, no badge. So she's out of the loop for the duration."

"Unless she's working through a second agency," Suzy frowned. "I'm signed up with five."

Ev smiled brightly. "I'll just call the home for info on Monday. If they say she's working there through the summer, I shall be appropriately sad," she said with a heavy sigh and drooped shoulders.

Suzy snorted. "Yeah. Right." She looked around the board. "Whose turn is it?"

It took us a moment or two to backtrack and figure out it was—oops, me. I rolled, plucked a clue card and eliminated the candlestick as the weapon. Ten minutes later we had a winner.

Suzy.

Again.

/ / /

Even though 'the other family members' would be in evidence Saturday afternoon—all afternoon—everyone was pretty chipper as we tumbled off to bed.

"I'm surprised Ev and Lily didn't lock us in the closet," I said as Ducky and I hit the upstairs landing. I ducked into the spare room and snagged my clothes from the bed so whoever ended up sleeping up there wouldn't have to play chambermaid. (The argument was still going on. Suzy felt Lily and Ev should have the bed, since Lily was still recuperating. They felt that as the elder of the three of them, she should have the spare room, and were trying to say it in such a way that it wasn't an insult. They'd been at it for five minutes already.)

When I came back out, Ducky was standing there with a curious look. "Why?"

"To get us to make up."

"Ah." He slipped an arm about my waist, tucking his hand in my back pocket. "Could be fun. You want to fight again?"

"No," I said firmly. "Fighting is no fun."

"But making up is," he teased. "We could—hullo, what have we here?"

A CD sat smack in the middle of our bed, framed by two roses I recognized from the back yard. The CD was labeled "play me."

"How very Alice In Wonderland-ish."

"That's Evelyn's handwriting," I said. "Approach with caution."

Holding it out like it was a petri dish full of plague virus, he walked over to the dresser and popped it into the music station that had mysteriously appeared about a month after we started spending the night together on a regular basis. (I like to have music around me. Ducky had no objections.)

Strains of "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" drifted from the speakers. I laughed and Ducky shook his head. "Gotta be Charlie. She's the big Elvis fan in their house."

Ducky held out a hand. "May I have this dance?"

I placed my hand in his and let him draw me closer. "I'd love to."

We swayed around the room from one song to the next, song after song, dance after dance, eventually ending with a repeat of Elvis. Yeah—Charlie was the mixmaster. We set the CD to play again when we finally tumbled into bed; with "Everything I Do" playing quietly in the background we made love slowly and gently, falling asleep in each others' arms as the songs faded away and the calendar turned the page to Saturday.

* * *

><p>5<p> 


	6. Subvert The Dominant Paradigm!

**Chapter Six: ****Subvert The Dominant Paradigm!**

* * *

><p>Ever want to know what it's like to govern a small town? Throw a party for a kid with lots of friends. <em>Lots<em> of friends.

When Ducky first suggested the party weeks ago, Charlie was scrupulously polite. "How many friends may I invite?" (After all, he was throwing the party and paying the piper; she didn't want to be rude.)

"Why, all of them, of course," was his answer.

The wince from Lily should have given him a clue. "_All_ of them?" Charlie repeated.

"If you're going to invite more than two or three, it would be hurtful not to invite them all, wouldn't it?"

Just to be on the safe side, she gave him a list. Friends from regular school. Friends from summer school. Friends from gymnastics class. Friends from the neighborhood. Friends from _our_ neighborhood. Friends from her offshoot-SCA group. Friends from—

"Is this a going-away party—or a state reception?" I looked over Ducky's shoulder, awed. This kid has more friends at nine than I had my entire K-12 career. I'm not sure if she's impressive or I was pathetic. Or both.

"I must say, it is quite a list… I know you had promised to make the cake, dear—"

"And I will. I had already figured on doing a plain chocolate cake and plain vanilla cake to go with the chocolate-peanut butter-banana-strawberry-caramel-pecan cake Charlie wanted—not everyone is going to want that," I said while Ducky shuddered faintly. "But I think I'm going to cheat and hit Costco or BJ's for the extra cakes. I don't even own enough pans to bake for a crowd this size!" This was giving me a sudden vision of our wedding—if we invited all of _his_ friends, we'd need to borrow the National Mall. Was it too late to consider eloping…? I looked at him in horror. "Omigod. I mean—Gibbs is good, I'm sure, but how will he keep up with—"

"Actually, Anthony has volunteered to assist in the 'flaming of dead cows,' as he put it." I stuck out my tongue and made a face. "Yes, well—you know Anthony," he laughed. "He gets along fairly well with children—just not in such a large number. So I think he'll be using the grill as a barrier of sorts."

"Ducky—" I chewed my lip. "I got out of teaching because, well, to be honest—I couldn't stand kids."

"Oh, sweetheart, you'll be fine. There's a wide difference between a room full of semiconscious teenagers being forced to read _Hamlet_ and a garden full of children playing games and stuffing themselves full of food."

"Yeah. Back then, you could still beat them," I muttered.

Ducky laughed and gave me a peck on the cheek. "You'll be fine," he repeated.

/ / /

It wasn't so much a party as it was like hosting a famine.

Suzy—who had overseen more parties for her children and grandchildren than I cared to think of—suggested we take both my van _and_ her station wagon for the crack of dawn shopping. I tried to convince her one would be fine—I was sure we wouldn't need _that_ much room. Boy, was I wrong. As it was, we had to jam and cram stuff into every nook and cranny, and it was a good thing neither of us had brought any passengers. Two husky young lads helped us load flats of soda, bags and bags of chips, a hundred or more pounds of hamburgers and hot dogs, prepared salads, fruit trays, veggie trays, frozen hors d'oeuvres and nibbles, cakes—

"I hope we have enough," Suzy murmured while the umpteenth box of individual ice cream cups was forced under the back seat in my van. (I had memories of changing a flat and discovering that the bolts slammed on the tire with an air wrench were not capable of being removed by hand using a tire iron. If we couldn't find someone as strong as the kid cramming the ice cream in place to wrestle the ice cream out again we'd just have to let it melt.) She caught my dubious look. "Pre- and sub-teens eat like birds—namely, they can put away what looks like their body weight in food in a given day. And if they aren't vidiots, they'll burn it off and come back for more."

Ducky had come up with a brilliant idea. As the pond no longer housed goldfish (and he wasn't overly interested in replacing them), a few days before he had drained it and scrubbed it down with bleach; while Suzy and I were helping the economy at one end of town he was accepting the delivery of something close to three hundred pounds of ice brought over from the other end. A third or more of it was dumped into the empty pond and when we returned he set Charlie to adding sodas to the pond full of salted ice. (The beer and adult drinks were stashed in three or four coolers that would be kept near the grill area—under the watchful eye of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. No underage drinker would dare sneak a Sam Adams with _him_ on duty.)

Abby was the first to arrive. "I figured you might need extra hands." I wasn't _that_ surprised to see Geoff in tow—it was his day off. Most of the employees at the store—including Valerie—were young enough that the idea of attending a party for a 9 year old wasn't very appealing, even if she was Ev's sort-of stepdaughter (there had been repeats of "I'll help cover the store, _you_ need to be there…")—but Abby could probably get Geoff to go bowling with her and the nuns. (I would pay to see that.)

"I won't say no." I was a little disappointed—instead of wearing a short-short dress with a low back (I was looking forward to seeing a heart attack or two from the in-laws), Abby was dressed for a garden party. She wore a black lace dress that barely skimmed her knees and had long sleeves that came to a point on the back of her hands. Black lace leggings, lace-up high heeled low boots (is there any other kind of heel in Abby's closet?) and a black lace parasol completed her ensemble. "Before I forget to mention—you look great."

"Thanks!" She gave me a sunny smile. "I used, like, SPF-zillion, so I should be okay outside—oh, Sandy," she said in shocked tones at my "oops" look. "Don't tell me you don't use sunscreen?"

"Um—sometimes?"

"I'm shocked. Really shocked. I would have thought Ducky would take better care of you!"

I winced. Ducky was hovering like crazy as it was (I figured the novelty would pall just a little over time—I didn't want it to fade completely, mind you)—and he always made a point to remind me about sunscreen if we were going to be outside for the day. (What 'remind'—he just tosses a bottle at me and figures I'm smart enough to follow the directions.) "He does, Abby. We've just been running around like crazy this morning—'

"Well, let _us_ do some of the running around." She reached out and patted my cheek. "You look tired, Pookie."

Uh-oh. Abby sifts through forensic evidence for a living (and did it as a pastime while growing up, I heard). Until we make an official announcement, I'm going to have to be on the top of my game around her. "We've been planning this shindig for a couple of weeks. Now that it's showtime—it's a little daunting."

She glanced around and leaned down so she was closer to my level. "Ducky told me about Charlotte's grandmother," she said in a low tone. She looked disgusted—and angry. "That was just awful what she said and did! I don't blame her for thinking she shot Lily!"

It took me a moment to sort out that "she" was Mrs. Kemmelbacher and "her" was Charlie. Too many pronouns. "Yeah, she's a real piece of work."

"I was going to say piece of something else," she grumbled. "Well, don't worry. The NCIS special security detail is going to be on top of things."

"You're not going to—you know—take her out or anything?" (One could hope.)

"Oh, no, no," she assured me. She made a face. "Darn it. Well, Ducky made us promise," she added when I snickered. "Don't worry. She won't get a chance to spoil the party!"

After Mother's mini-meltdown, Ducky and I had discussed what might—god forbid—happen during the party. Victoria has her up and down moments; considering she's going to be one hundred next spring (and _will_ make it, by gum; she is already working on _her_ party plans) and sometimes even forgets she's living in the U.S., it's a game of 'who knows?' as to how she'll fare on a given day. So we were a _little_ concerned the party might be too much for her.

Bzzt. Wrong answer.

She was totally in her element. Over the past month, Charlie had been sharing some of the more interesting stories from Victoria's past (she was still avidly working on Victoria's biography) and her friends were dying to meet her 'grandma.' Who wouldn't want to? The woman had traveled through Africa (swimming with the hippos, no less); gone on an archaeological dig in Tunisia while in single digits (her grandfather was the sponsor, no way would they refuse his request to take his grandchildren); spent a summer, with her sisters, visiting New York relations right after the end of The Great War (and they were swept up in an arrest with their cousins Martha and Beatrice while marching for the right for women to vote—well, Mart and Bea were marching, Victoria and her sisters thought they were going to Central Park); visited (again with her sisters) their Chicago relations a few years later during the Roaring Twenties (and some of those family members turned out to be bootleggers)—

"Suzy is keeping an eagle ear on things," I reassured Ducky. (He had just overheard the heretofore unknown tale of the three sisters deciding to become circus performers and they ran away together at the tender ages of 12 (Gloria), 10 (Eugenia) and 7 (Victoria). (The ringmaster was quite amused. He managed to find performance spots for all three of them for a couple of days while his wife was tasked with tracking down the girls' frantic parents—no mean feat when probably 85% of the population still didn't have a telephone.)) "If the stories get too racy, she'll do a 'look, a butterfly!' distraction."

So Victoria sat in the shade of her 'new' magnolia, spinning tales for a couple of dozen kids sitting on the grass while others flitted about like large, giggling birds.

In addition to half the under-teen crowd in the tri-state area Charlie had a number of adult friends and the crossovers got along quite well, especially as it turned out many of them knew one another or were a degree of separation apart and hadn't realized they had a common element in Charlie. Lord Charles and Lady Marguerite of Little Scrumping on the Bay (Jim and Melanie Conover of D.C., in reality), members of Charlie's medieval recreation group The Empire of the Blood Roses, were occasional performers at the Gaslight and friends of Misty's (and, now, by association, Abby's). Some of the live action D&D players knew McGee from a local s-f convention (yep, I was right—he was a conventiongoer). And the mother of one of Charlie's gymnastics pals was the former college girlfriend of none other than Tony DiNozzo. (After running into Amy and her daughter, he stayed behind the grill and never came out again.) (At first I thought it was because she was married and, even if he was tempted, there were some lines even Tony wouldn't cross—actually she was divorced and on the hunt for the next husband (#4, I believe she said). I didn't blame DiNozzo for hiding.)

As it turned out, the front line from NCIS was unnecessary. They were still quite welcome—as guests, if nothing else—but they didn't need to run interference at all (much to our relief). Even the Kemmelbachers were—gasp—having a good time. Grandfather was a quiet fellow who gave Charlie a big hug, laughed at her, "Oh, _wow_!" over the gift card to Best Buy ($100—oh, wow, was right) and parked himself in a corner with a plate of food and two beers and watched the happy chaos with a bemused smile.

Grandmother got a hug as well, and a gracious 'thank you.' Charlie made sure to introduce the Kemmelbacher clan to her extended family, including the NCIS contingent. In addition to the grandparents we had aunts (Evangeline and Rachel, the two who had followed Mrs. K at the hospital, and Leah, who had spilled the beans about Lily and earned herself a one week suspension without pay for that indiscretion) and one uncle (Luke, whose tongue almost fell out of his mouth when he met Abby). (Okay, _that_ was funny as hell. I think he peed his pants.)

Mrs. K was understandably nervous around Gibbs—their one and only meeting had been uncomfortable (understatement)—but he merely said, "Nice to see you again, ma'am," and went back to flipping burger patties. He's not gauche enough to bring up her difficulties with Charlie's moms while at Charlie's party—but she still kept toward the other end of the yard.

I wandered about the yard from group to group, pleased to discover that while Charlie was a little on the unusual side there were plenty of kids out there just as quirky. One young miss looked like Abby's little sister (or perhaps she was just dressed as Wednesday Addams); another little girl was chatting with Ziva in a language I couldn't readily identify (Ziva looked both amused and interested); and then there was the lad that had McGee cornered, trying to convince him to market the 'way cool' CD notebook he had put together as a gift for Charlie (8" diskettes with 5-1/4" and 3-1/2" and mini CDs sort of decoupaged on them and sealed in plastic made the front and back covers, with sheets of envelopes for regular and mini CDs inside). McGee actually looked like he was considering the idea.

McGee was quick to assure me he hadn't used the diskettes he was checking out for Chanda. They were extras laying about the computer reconstruction lab at the LOC, free for the taking. But as for the disks that had been locked away for over thirty years—

"—amazing amount of data on them. It really beat the odds, but having those disks in the briefcase _and_ in a safe really helped. They were clearly handled by someone who knew what they were doing."

"So—what did it turn out to be?"

"So far—invoices. Mostly invoices. We're copying everything to a jump drive—it's easier to access, plus who knows how much longer the media will support the data? There have been some bad sectors—some of the pages have bad spots, some are totally gone. Basically they had a shell on a dumb terminal—"

The terminal wasn't the only thing that was dumb. I'm sure I had a "hunh?" look on my face; at least I wasn't drooling.

McGee noticed. "A dumb terminal is one where you can enter data and it's sent to the mainframe, it's strictly data transfer, no interaction."

I'm sure he thought that helped to clarify things. Nope. Not a clue.

"Okay. Pretend you have a pad of preprinted forms for the store. Customer name, address, the book they're ordering, the cost, how they plan to pay—just a word or sentence indicating the information you need, plus a blank space. Now, short of turning over the page and writing on the back, you're limited to those blocks of information. That's the dumb terminal. You tear off that page and hand it to someone to fill the order—that's the mainframe. For Quartermaster, the data would then transfer to the warehouse, they'd print out a daily report, pick and pack the orders and the cycle would be complete."

"Gotcha."

"All the orders were put on tape drive; Mr. Fairchild had about a thousand on the disks, he was working on a program to pull the data into specific reports. They were looking at target marketing—you know, if you like _this_ author you might like _that_ author—"

"I get emails from Amazon like that all the time."

"So do I. So this would be the great-great-grandfather of those recommendations."

"So it was just…accounting junk?" I tried not to sound too disappointed.

"So far."

"Why would someone lock invoices up in a safe?" (Why would someone pretend to be a nurse-companion? I'm collecting some weird "how come?" situations of late.)

McGee shrugged. "Maybe there's something we haven't uncovered yet. Maybe it was something he had in his head and hadn't written down. Maybe—" He shrugged. "I'll keep looking."

"I appreciate it. I owe you brownies."

He winced. "I love your brownies but—I'm trying to lose a few pounds." He grimaced slightly. "This party has been a test of willpower. And it lost."

"How about oatmeal raisin cookies. They way I make 'em, they're actually _good_ for you."

He beamed. "Sounds great. Thanks!"

"Oh, Grandma! You are _priceless_!"

I glanced toward Victoria's corner; she was still surrounded by a crowd of children (and a number of adults). Charlie had her arms flung about Victoria's neck and was laughing uproariously. Suzy was still right by Victoria's side and was shaking her head in mild disbelief. (Hope she got a chance to censor the story.) Charlie had one of her aunts in tow—Leah, the ER nurse who (according to Charlie) had honestly been coming from a place of concern when she called her mother the day Lily came in after having been shot. Charlie bore her no ill will; neither would the rest of us.

I was a little startled when she looked up, caught my gaze—and looked shocked. No, not shocked—scared, almost terrified. Flat-out terrified, for just a split second, turning absolutely dead white. She turned away, smiling hesitantly as Charlie introduced her to Victoria and Suzy.

Huh. When Charlie had introduced us earlier, she'd been quite cordial. No reason I could think that she'd be scared of me—unless she thought I was going to go to the hospital and demand she be fired. Her mother was probably of the opinion I was a vindictive bitch; I made a mental note to seek her out and make friendly chitchat with her.

As I swung my gaze back toward McGee, I passed by Mrs. Kemmelbacher—who liked like she had been pole axed. Ducky was standing near her; he touched her arm and she started, looking at him. He spoke to her a moment and they walked off to a corner of the yard. I was willing to bet Charlie's "Grandma!" had hurt like nothing else could—and my second bet was that Ducky was gently pointing out how her prejudice and hate was just pushing Charlie further and further away. If anybody could make her see reason—Ducky would be the one.

"What do you know about Quartermaster?" McGee asked.

"Just what I heard the other day. I kind of recognized the name. You find out anything?"

"Not a lot. They have a website—they're still local, just one central warehouse. Company was started by a supply sergeant after his hitch during World War II. At first they specialized in military contracts, branched out to businesses in the late fifties. With the way the supply chain now works in the military, _all_ they do is private sale."

"I'm surprised they're still in business, what with BJ's, Costco, OfficeMax—"

He shrugged. "Enough customers who don't want to drive out, shop, drag the stuff back. Enough that want centralized billing—one company to provide everything. Or maybe they're the only resource for certain products."

"True," I admitted. "We use some obscure things at the store—I must had half a dozen companies I deal with who are the _only_ supplier for this or that."

"Try finding ribbons for a manual typewriter," he muttered with a small laugh.

We wandered back toward the tables of food. "My best friend in grade school had a grandma who made the most awesome Italian caramels. Family recipe, handed down mother to daughter for over a century. She never gave out the recipe but swore she'd leave it in her recipe book for her daughter and granddaughter. When she died—it wasn't in the file. She forgot to write it down, literally took it with her when she went. Gone for good. And by the way—" I scooped the last of the root beer gelatin with whipped cream onto my plate (several people had thought it was a pot luck; the extra food was not going to waste) "—I promise not to blow your cover."

He looked confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"The other day at the store, when we told you we had a mystery, you looked uncomfortable," I said, voice low. "I thought you might be worried that I'd tell everyone that Thom E. Gemcity—"

His face cleared. "Oh, no, no, that's fine." He laughed ruefully. "My sister outed me last year, everyone knows about it. No, I was remembering how I ended up meeting you officially as opposed to wandering in as a customer. I was worried you had found another body—especially after the last couple of weeks."

"Ah."

We chatted pleasurably about books for quite a while, then engaged in the social square dance that happens when you're in a large group of congenial people. Ducky was right—a crowd of kids having fun was different than captive audience for a grammar lesson. And I was delighted to discover many of them were fans of Story Time and/or big readers.

Eventually I crossed paths with Charlie's Uncle Luke, Aunt Evangeline and Aunt Rachel. Away from their mother (who was still in conference with Ducky), the aunts were pleasant, intelligent young woman. Uncle Luke had a bit of a wandering eye (mostly between the chin and navel of any female over 18; I could picture him as the loser younger brother in one of Victoria's Regency romances, seducing maids in the back corridor and gambling away his monthly allowance)—but he didn't spring at me with a giant crucifix, screaming, "Begone, heathen!" which was a start.

"Having a good time?" I gave Leah Kemmelbacher what I hoped was a genial smile as I gathered used paper plates and cups.

She gave me a hint of a smile in return. "Mm-hmm. I'm—I'm glad to finally meet everyone Charlotte—she, uh, she speaks highly of all of you."

"Thanks."

She stared at the plate of food she'd barely touched. "What—what did he say about me?" Her voice quivered a little at the end.

"I'm sorry—what did who say?"

"Thom?" She glanced up at me warily.

I did a quick sift of my conversations. Tom? No Tom in the group I could— "Thom Gemcity?" She nodded. "Actually, he never mentioned your name." I said it as kindly as I could.

"He—uh—knows me more as Lorelei Odile. From our writers' group."

"Sorry—no," I said, shaking my head. "He probably hasn't seen you. It's a big crowd."

She smiled. "That it is." Was it my imagination, or did she look relieved? "Charlotte has a lot of very good friends." She looked over to where Charlie was engaged in an animated discussion of god only knows what with Evelyn and a couple of "older" (teenage) friends.

"Good family, too. It's too bad your mother has such a dislike of Evelyn and Lily."

Her smile dropped and she looked at me with emotions warring on her face—confusion, wariness, fear… even a flash of anger. "Yes. It is," she said shortly. She abruptly turned and walked away.

_Huh! What got her knickers in a twist?_

/ / /

By late afternoon, most of the partygoers were gone. A couple of kids who seemed to be Charlie's closest friends were parked—with Charlie and Victoria—in front of Victoria's computer, waiting for parents to pick them up. Ducky had had a moment of panic when they started surfing the web—but they were in search of a very specific website, one he ended up approving of wholeheartedly.

"Oh, _excellent_, Grandma! That was hard to see!"

"It certainly was. The artist is very sneaky." Victoria's pale eyes searched the screen. "Oh! Does it have to be a real elephant? I rode an elephant in Zambia, once. Her name was Natumi—she was very sweet."

I shook my head; the things that stay in your memory…

"No—it can be a real elephant, or a statue, a toy, a picture—sometimes they blend it in with the background—"

"Perhaps—" It took a couple of tries (she was still a little shaky with the mouse) but she finally clicked on the children's book on the chair; _Dumbo_ disappeared in a twinkle of stars and 'elephant' was crossed off the list. "I found it!"

"Can't hurt, might help," I murmured to Ducky.

"The brain is like any muscle," Abby said, voice low but still enthusiastic. "Gotta exercise it, keep it limber." She stretched expansively, just missing Jimmy Palmer's head.

"No cartwheels," Ducky admonished and she laughed.

I made a quick sweep of the living room, collecting a stack of paper plates and ferrying them to the kitchen, Abby assisting. The rest of the NCIS contingent were huddled in there: Gibbs and DiNozzo, each with a beer in hand, were at the end of the kitchen, discussing something in low voices; Ziva and McGee were chatting about a book I only vaguely recognized from their comments. Ziva broke off and gave me a warm smile. "It was a lovely party, Cassandra. I'm glad things went off without a stitch."

"Hitch," DiNozzo called out and she rolled her eyes.

"Nice lack of drama," Gibbs said with a quirk of a smile.

"You helped with that, I'm sure," I said. "Thank you. And thank you—both of you—for a yeoman's job on those grills."

"It was fun," Tony grinned.

"Charlie's a nice little girl. Ducky talks about her a lot. She's like the kid he never had."

I tried not to blush. "Yeah." I was pretty sure Ducky hadn't spilled the beans (strike that—positive), but Gibbs was giving me a speculative look. I dumped the debris in the kitchen bin and as I turned back the sight of McGee made my brain dredge up a memory. "Hey, Tim, did Leah Kemmelbacher ever catch up with you?"

He looked mildly confused. "Who?"

"Charlie's aunt. She's in your writing group?"

He frowned more deeply. "Sorry—I didn't meet with anyone—"

Her AKA popped to mind. "Lorelei Odile?"

He looked startled. "Lorelei Odile?" he repeated. I nodded. "_She_ is Charlotte's aunt?" I nodded again. "Mrs. Kemmelbacher is _her mother_?"

"Yeah. Why the stunned look?"

"She's just—not at all like what I've heard of her mother," he said slowly. "Not _at all_."

"She's not a bigoted religious fanatic? Good." There was a tiny snicker from Abby behind me. "What?"

"Nothing. Just—" She looked over at McGee, who shrugged. "Well—Tim and I met Lorelei at a poetry night thing and she ended up joining his group."

She chewed her lip, thinking. Finally I prodded, "And…?"

"Sandy—the girl lives in Narnia."

"She lives in DC," I corrected. The only one to move out of the house, Charlie said.

DiNozzo came to my rescue. "Sandy, Abby is saying this Lorelei chick is so far in the closet, she's living in Narnia." Trust DiNozzo to understand an oblique movie reference.

I let out a whoosh. "Oh." Pause. I looked at McGee. "_Oh._ No wonder the poor girl was scared spitless when she saw me talking to you. She probably figured I was going to run and rat her out to—hey, how the hell would her mother not know?"

"You don't acknowledge what you don't want to know." McGee exchanged a look with Abby; this time she shrugged. "Let's just say there's a lot going on in that family."

"And… it's a good thing Charlie lives where she does?" I said slowly. Abby pursed her lips and nodded. Okay; pursue that later. "Well—on to happier topics." I looked around the kitchen expectantly. "Who's staying for dinner?" There was a general oh-no-overstayed-my-welcome-shouldn't-need-to-get-going muddle of voices. I raised my own voice just a hair. "Okay, let me rephrase this. The popular entrée was hot dogs, we have about twenty pounds of hamburger patties, I'm making spaghetti for dinner, you _are_ staying—_yes_?" I gave Ziva and McGee a firm look.

"I would love to," Ziva said quickly. She has the most charming smile; I find it hard to believe that she used to be a Mossad assassin. Well—sometimes I find it hard to believe.

"My pleasure," McGee chimed in. Abby nodded enthusiastically and whispered, "I'll go tell Jimmy and Geoffster," and slipped from the kitchen.

"I love spaghetti," DiNozzo said with a show of his pearly whites. "I'm Italian. It's in the rules."

That left their fearless leader. "Someone else cooking my dinner? No argument from me."

"And we still have plenty of cake," I said, pulling cans of tomato paste and crushed tomatoes from the pantry. "Plain chocolate and vanilla," I added as Gibbs smiled in amusement. "I figured that chocolate banana mishegosh was going to be with us forever. Never thought it would be the first to go."

"Never underestimate kids," he said.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Ziva offered.

"I'm good. But thank you."

"Perhaps staying out of your way would be the best assistance," she laughed, dodging me as I opened the fridge.

"It _is_ a small kitchen," I admitted. "Usually Ducky and I are the only ones waltzing around together."

"Why don't we leave you in peace?" McGee suggested. "But if you need help, we're ready and willing."

"Hey." I dropped my voice. "You guys gave up your Saturday because Ducky asked you to run interference at a _kids_ party. You've done _plenty_."

Gibbs shrugged. "Family."

"You're marryin' into a weird one," Tony cracked, doing his Jack Nicholson voice.

"Huh." I grabbed flats of burger patties, bags of mushrooms and onions and a jar of crushed garlic. "Wait until you meet my side of the family at the wedding."

I started browning meat in one pan, onions and garlic sautéing in another, and generally flinging ingredients with great abandon. To my surprise, Gibbs stayed behind, sitting at the breakfast table, sipping his beer. After a while, he said, "Smells good."

"Thanks."

I'm used to an audience while I cook—if not one of the four-footed members of the family, Victoria will frequently help or just sit at that selfsame table and talk to me. So it didn't bother me (well, not much) to have Gibbs just sit and watch. "That's a lot of sauce," he said after another long pause.

"Not really. We've got an even dozen people, pretty much equally divided between who likes mushrooms and who doesn't." I pointed to the two pots.

"Why not just tell 'em to pick 'em out?" he asked with an amused look.

"_Victoria_ doesn't like mushrooms. If I'm going to make one pot of sauce for her, I may was well make a bigger pot for all the non-fungi people in the house."

He nodded wisely when I mentioned Mother's name. "Mrs. Mallard is a—very special lady," he said carefully with an understanding smile.

"And she has _quite_ the crush on you." He rolled his eyes slightly. "At least she's not taking the Metro to the Navy Yard, trying to get you to go out dancing."

He gestured with his beer. "_That_ was scary," he said solemnly.

"Yeah." Victoria—with the aid of helpful Metro agents—actually made it as far as the Navy Yard. She was stopped at the guard shack (thank heavens they didn't toss her against the wall and put her in an armlock). Fortunately Jimmy Palmer and Abby were walking back from lunch and rescued her. Abby then drove her home, discovered the day nurse passed out in the living room, called CompanionAbles and raised holy hell. With Gibbs' approval, Victoria was a fixture for the duration of Ducky's and my trip to Book Expo—even though she drove him batshit crazy, I'm sure.

"I'm glad Duck has you on his six."

I almost dropped my knife. "Th—thank you."

"Been friends with Ducky for a long time." He looked reflective. "I remember when she knew me as Jethro Gibbs. Now she barely knows me as Matthew."

Wow. Like his kindness to Charlie, this softer side to Gibbs threw me a little.

"Ducky loves his mom. It's nice that he found someone who fits in, who's okay with her—" He smiled. "Who makes spaghetti sauce without mushrooms just for her."

I laughed. "Y'know, if it were reversed—if she were the only mushroom fan in the house—I probably _would_ just tell everyone else to pick 'em out."

He saluted me with his bottle. "Fair enough."

/ / /

Victoria and Charlie were both done in pretty early. By 8:00 Charlie was snug in her sleeping bag, Victoria on her daybed only feet away and snoring like crazy. At Suzy's suggestion, we brought the lingering-over-cake-and-coffee-or-tea NCIS crew into the loop with regard to the Neoma Keithley/Shelly Romero mystery. "Granted, there are no Marines or naval officers involved—but they investigate crimes on a daily basis. Maybe they'll see something we haven't."

I repeated what we knew, what we wondered, what I had done. (I was getting faster with every telling.)

DiNozzo was impressed. "Wow! You dressed up like an old lady, went in in disguise? You've got brass ones!"

I gave him a weak smile; Ducky's conniption fit was still fresh in my mind.

Old Ironside plot or no, killing them off for money was the first idea brought up (by Geoff) and shot down (by Gibbs—who had been listening more carefully to my recollection).

Ziva suggested identity theft, what I had come up with the day before.

"Gee, wouldn't a person notice if there was a card opened in their name and someone was charging fifty or seventy-five K—eh, McScammed?" The last was directed to McGee, who merely glowered at DiNozzo. Inside joke, I guess.

"Probably not stupid enough to put it all in one name or card," Gibbs said. He was slouched in one of the wingback chairs, feet propped on an ottoman. "How many residents you think were there?"

I held up a finger. "Hold that thought." I ran to my purse and dug out the paperwork I'd collected the day before and tossed it on the coffee table.

"Three hundred and fourteen units. Even figuring each unit has only one occupant—I'm sure plenty of them have couples—?" Gibbs looked at me and I nodded. "So if they took out a credit card and only charged, say, two hundred bucks—nice low number, something the company might write off—two hundred times three-fourteen—"

"Sixty-two thousand, eight hundred," Ziva quickly supplied.

"And a lot of identity theft goes undetected because they _aren't_ defaulting on the cards," Suzy supplied. "My eldest daughter had her credit score _improved_ by an identity thief. He took out three cards and made perfect, on-time payments for two years. She didn't know about it until she applied for a home equity loan to put an addition on her house."

Tony laughed. "Like that old joke—"someone stole my wife's wallet—I didn't report it because he was spending less that she did."

"Rodney Dangerfield?" I suggested.

Suzy rolled her eyes. "Probably goes back to Burns and Allen."

"But consider the statistics," McGee argued. "A minimum of three hundred and fourteen people. If they're selecting people based on income and credit scores—"

I held up the paperwork I'd squirreled away. "I didn't give this much info when I got my car loan."

He gave me an encouraging nod. "So out of three hundred and fourteen people—_nobody_ runs their credit report? Not _one_?" He looked around the group. "Who here checks their credit at least once a year?" Everyone raised a hand, even Geoff. "Two or three times a year?" Geoff, Abby and Gibbs dropped their hands. "Quarterly?" Tony, Ziva, Ev and Jimmy dropped out. "Monthly?" McGee, Suzy, Ducky, Lily and I were the last with our hands up. "So in this house the only people not running a check at _least_ once a year are the little kid and the 99-year-old lady."

"Actually—I run Mother's credit as well," Ducky corrected. "She still has a credit card account—and a fairly good credit score. Though I don't think she remembers she _has_ the card…"

"Don't laugh. I run Charlie's, too," Lily said. "A few years ago, Dad got a report from Social Security—a report showing someone had been paying into the system under her number. Turns out someone had been using a fake card with her number out of Nogales, Arizona. About a year later, the same number was being used by a different woman in South Lake Tahoe, California."

"So the chances are pretty good that _some_ of those residents are running their credit reports. My grandmother guards her credit score like it's gold—which it is. So _nobody_ is running a credit report? Nobody?" McGee asked.

"Maybe… they wait until someone has been there a while, see if they run a report—and if they don't, then they open a card or two in their resident's name?" DiNozzo suggested.

"Possible," Gibbs agreed. "Even if only a quarter of them would bring in fifteen-twenty thousand."

"So if they do two hundred or so on the card, maybe three-four cards per person—I get three or four offers a month—" Abby started.

"But—wait." I sat up. "If they're opening these accounts to scam the companies, once they've defaulted on a couple of cards, that's it. That well has dried up, their credit score tanks. So if they have a low turnover—and they do—those sources of income end. It's got to be something ongoing."

Silence. We chewed on it for a while, then Gibbs said, "Nobody is being double billed?"

I shook my head. "Not that we could see. And you don't have to be on automatic debit, some people pay by check or money order."

"Well… maybe it's just a ten or twenty charge once a month? That's something most people wouldn't notice, and twenty a month—only six grand or so… but every month, six grand you didn't have to lift a finger to earn—" Lily suggested.

"If they're hitting all of their locations—they've got a dozen or fifteen or so," I added. "So fifteen times six grand—"

"Sixty thousand." It was a chorus of Gibbs, Ziva and Evelyn. We all laughed lightly.

"Sixty K. Every month," Gibbs reiterated.

"But, again, there's only _one_ fee, _one_ payment," I argued.

"Perhaps they padded the one payment by the amount they are embezzling," Ziva suggested. "If the thief is in the accounting department—"

"Shelly is trolling the waters for new blood. Her husband is the general director for all of the properties. She's not on the payroll and I don't know if he would have access to the accounting area. What I remember from my business accounting class a zillion years ago was division of responsibility. Don't have _one_ person in charge of everything—or even too many things. The fewer the tasks, the harder it is to embezzle."

Ziva sighed. "Another brick hall."

"Wall," DiNozzo corrected. She gave him a mildly irritated look.

"Well—I don't want to be a party pooper—but six a.m. is right around the corner." Geoff looked at me. "What's the address?"

"Hunh?"

"The books we're packing from Chanda's?"

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Ducky studiously staring into his coffee.

"Should Alan and I meet you there? You renting a truck or what?"

"Renting a U-haul. Ev picked the truck up earlier. I'll text you the address and directions. I sent a delivery of boxes over, Chanda volunteered to start the packing—she bribed a couple of friends with offers of babysitting, so from what she texted me earlier I'd say three-fourths of our work is done." (_Hmm. Wonder if she'd like to come back to work at the store…_)

Geoff looked at Ducky and jerked his head in my direction. "So—she knows not to—"

Ducky gave his coffee a small smile. "Oh, yes. She knows."

"Are you _ever_ going to the doctor's?" Evelyn asked in mild irritation.

"Next Wednesday," Ducky and I chorused. "I tied her to the chair and forced her to call," Ducky added.

Abby gave us a slow smile. "Ooooh. Kinky. I like it."

I started to wonder if Geoff would make it there in the morning…

/ / / / /

"You know why executions are held at dawn?"

I gave Evelyn a wary glance from the passenger side of the rental truck. "Why?

She grabbed her travel mug and took a gulp of coffee. "'cause who wants to live at dawn?"

"You said it." I turned sideways and rested my cheek against the high back of the seat. I was feeling dreadfully carsick (or maybe it was morning sickness) and I was trying to will it away.

"You okay?"

"Payback's a bitch. This is the price for all the sugar and junk food from yesterday."

"I'm surprised you're not drinking a ton of coffee to even it out."

The smell was actually nauseating. "If I'm going to puke, a rerun of half-and-half is truly ugly." Ev shuddered. "7-Up is less offensive."

"_More_ sugar," she pointed out. I stuck my tongue out. "Oh, ma-_turrre_," she teased.

Chanda was up and waiting when we arrived. Up, waiting and _way_ too perky for 0600. "I forgot. You're a morning person," I groaned.

"And then some." The tall, lanky fellow walking out behind her was undoubtedly her husband. "Hi, Jerry Davis." He held out a hand, shaking ours in turn. He didn't look like a college prof, even a community college one. Maybe a lifeguard—tall and tan, long curly hair that was a light brown with plenty of sun-streaks, and an easy grin; I liked him immediately. "Fortunately, she had me trained before we gave birth to two human alarm clocks."

"_We_ gave birth," Chanda repeated with a small snort. "Right."

The arrival of Geoff and Alan kept me from making any embarrassing slip of the tongue.

With four of us—frequently six—working (fortunately the girls were at grandma and grandpa's for the weekend), it only took until just before noon to be done. Of course, this was only because Chanda had pulled in every favor she could and sold her soul to other moms for babysitting in the near future. "Pfft," she said when I started to protest. "Two kids or six, it's pretty much the same mess and noise level." (After Charlie's party yesterday, I'd debate that.) "I remembered how hard it was when we expanded at Papyrus—and this is almost as many books. You said Ev would be interested in a lot of the history and biography, so I kept that out for the two of you to hash over; I figure at the worst, if I screwed up on some of the stuff that's packed, you can un-screw it up when you unpack."

"You're a doll." I gave her a hug.

"You just bought a transmission job and rebuilt engine for my car. That money was spent before it hit the bank!"

Much like our buying trip to Pippa's store, my stuff was loaded on first; anything with a red X was slated for Evelyn's store and loaded last so that it could be unloaded first. As the boxes mounted up, Ev started looking more and more worried.

"Sandy, I can't afford this," she finally confessed. "I sank pretty much all of my purchasing money into what I got from Pippa's. I'm just driving the truck—you paid for it. The state is covering Lily's medical bills—crime victim's compensation fund—but—"

"Chill your jets. I already paid for all the books. We can figure out what your share is and you can pay me back 'whenever,'" I said. _Or you can work it off in babysitting_, an evil part of my brain chortled. Ev looked, as Charlie would put it, "exceedingly relieved."

We swapped seats for the ride back—Geoff went with Ev and would help her unload and Alan drove us back to the store.

Valerie gave us a wary eye. (The books had been old and dusty; we did look rather disreputable.) "How many boxes?"

Alan snorted. "I'm a liberal arts major. I can't count that high."

"A hundred? Two?" she prompted when he didn't respond.

"You remember all the boxes from Pippa's?" I said.

She drew back slightly. "Yeah…?" she questioned in a suspicious tone.

"More."

She slumped in her chair. "God bless Abby for fixing up the end room. Shall I call around to anyone who's off today?"

"Well, we've got you, Geoff, Ev, Alan, me—"

"Not you," Alan corrected. "Geoff said the Doc told him you could get a freakin' hernia carrying stuff around. You don't get to carry anything heavier than a pizza box. Boss."

I sighed; Valerie gave me a "busted!" look. "Pizza. I can take a hint,"

Valerie grinned. "Marcy and Cherie are here—"

There was a "Yo?" from a far corner of the store; Marcy has phenomenal hearing.

Valerie tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. "One o'clock on Sunday. Too bad we can't actually get Linda to work for us—"

I looked up sharply. "Linda is back?" I couldn't help but grin. "Haven't 'seen' her in over a year!"

"Yep. When I came in there was a big stack of books in the trivia section, smack in front of the bookcase. A couple of piles of sci-fi at the ends of their shelves, too."

(Linda Howard had been one of my first customers. She came to the store every day—_every_ day. At least once or twice a week she'd buy something; the rest of the time she'd find a cozy corner, sit and read. I often found her alphabetizing books just to have something to do. As time went on, I discovered she worked as a "temp;" if she had a job that day, she'd stop by in the evening. Otherwise, she'd be there all day. Health issues had caused her to lose a full-time job and her medical insurance and she discovered the lowest insurance she could get would be an eight hundred a month payment—for crappy coverage, at that. Plus, employers are hesitant to hire someone who took off time seven times in four years for surgery, radiation and chemo. I hired her as much as I could afford to—those first years were lean ones—but she was just grateful for the books.

Then one day she didn't show up.

She wasn't scheduled to work; I figured she had a temp job that had taken her into evening hours as well. But when I locked the door at nine, I had an uncomfortable feeling.

The next day, she wasn't there again.

The third day, I dug out her application (I was too scared to pay someone off the books) and called her home number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Finally the machine picked up and I remembered she was forced to live with her parents because of all of her financial problems. I listened to the message, then heard, "Tape is full. Please call back. _Beep_."

There was an alternate "in case of emergency" number; her aunt, I was pretty sure. Three rings, then a quiet sigh: "Hello?"

I knew. I just… knew.

It started a week after the funeral. I'd find books where they didn't belong. You get that in a bookstore—people pick something up, change their minds, set it back down. Agatha Christie ends up sitting next to Elizabeth George. Usually they stay in the same area, though sometimes you'll find a stack of a little bit of everything dumped off in an odd corner. This was the same topics, all left in a pile on one of the chairs—a chair that had been empty when I shut the doors the night before.

It took me a couple of months to figure it out. Trivia. Ancient history. Biographies of film stars. Puzzles and games. Sic-fi. Mysteries. All of Linda's pet topics, all left on her favorite chair. I stood in the middle of the store and turned around. "Linda? Linda, I don't mind you reading any of the books here. You're totally welcome to. But could you please leave them in their correct sections? It would be a big help, especially when I'm here alone. Thank you!" I waved to the air.

Behind me I heard a shocked gasp, turned and saw a middle-aged woman staring at me. "Who—who are you talking to?"

"Former customer. Our resident ghost," I said cheerfully. I felt a lot better about Linda's passing knowing that she was still with us.

She paid for her books without another word. Never saw her again.)

"Erika is gone for the summer. Beth will probably come in. Gomer—"

"Don't call him that," I chided. "His name is Robert."

"He calls himself Gomer Pyle," she said, still looking at the ceiling for ideas. (I remember reading that when fledgling actors lose their lines, they look up—as though the words are written on the ceiling.) "I _think_ Ian is still in town… Mac should be home from church by now… Hey—you offer Tim Walinski store credit, he'll probably help, too."

"Works for me."

"Glad we got everything from The Bookie Joint priced—finally."

"Yeah, a lot of the books are going to need evals. Anything marked PB can go straight on the shelves. PB with a dollar sign or just a dollar sign goes in your office—or mine." (There were a _lot_ that needed online research.) "Everything else gets stacked in back."

"Sandy… how many boxes are we looking at?"

"Well… um… there's a _lot_ of paperbacks—"

"How many?"

"There's, gosh, a bunch that are golden age stuff, you can cram a hundred in a box—"

"_How_… _many_?"

"And mass market stuff, pft, that's, what, fifty or sixty per box—"

Valerie took a deep breath and huffed it out. "Banker's boxes?"

"Um-hmm."

"How many?"

"Gosh. Three-fifty?"

Her face cleared. "Oh. That's not _too_ bad—"

"Paperbacks." She tried several times, but couldn't bring herself to ask again. Finally I let loose the bombshell. "It's a little over fourteen hundred." Her mouth fell open; no sound escaped. "For the hardbacks."

Finally: "Please… _please_ tell me you didn't buy almost _eighteen HUNDRED boxes_?"

"Do I look that stu—don't answer that. No, I rented them from 4-R, same as last time. Stripped them of every one. So the faster we can swap them out or unload—"

Valerie did some fast calculations and scribbled a map of the back storeroom. "It'll work. Barely. I'll map out an area in the middle of the room so we can still have access to the shelves—by the way, your Atoz order came in, you ordered a _lot_ of soda—if we unload and unpack some of them, it's less rental…" She grabbed a roll of duct tape from the bin under the counter. "You might want to order pizza _now_—and don't forget the PTA coupon book!" She is such a good manager. "_Eighteen… hundred… boxes…_" she ended in a mutter, striding from the room.

I knew her grousing was all bluster. She would want to check out every single book before it hit the shelf; Valerie was a born bookseller—like so many employees, she'd all but grown up at the store.

Cherie popped up seconds later, drafted to watch the front counter. "Valerie said you're ordering pizza?" The lure of free food.

"Yep. Did she also tell you you're going to be working your butt off for it?"

She laughed. "Yeah, she said something like 'eighteen… HUNDRED… boxes…' when she walked away," she said in a dramatic voice. She gave a mildly scornful snort. "As if. Come on, where—" Her voice trailed away. "Sandy—you didn't—" Her eyes widened.

"Told you you'd be earning it."

She sank into the chair. "That's one way of making sure the calories don't stick."

I scurried to my office and dug out my PTA Pals envelope. Good—not only were there plenty of pizza coupons in the collection, they didn't expire until October. I grabbed the receiver.

"—come on, not only will you get paid, you'll get _fed_—"

Oops. Valerie had taken the portable extension with her and was cajoling someone into coming in for the afternoon. I quietly left the conversation, hit the button for the second line and hit #9 on speed dial. "Pizza Palace! Is this for delivery?"

"Boy, is it. I'm calling in an order using the PTA Pals coupons."

"Ah—those don't include delivery, ma'am."

"I know. Last time they just charged us twenty bucks. It's a _big_ order. Papyrus Books and Gifts."

"Oh, Sandy! Sure. You know the drill—one topping included, extra veggies are fifty cents, extra meat a dollar. What can I get you for?"

I laughed. "Bill Stewart, right?" He's yet another part-timer; he works three different part-time jobs around school and he always Spoonerizes 'get for you' into 'get you for.' Don't know if it's deliberate or by accident. "Too bad you're working today. We could use extra hands over here."

"Yeah? I get off at two, I was mostly working prep shift. I can even bring the pizza with me, bring your coupons back tomorrow morning."

"Sold. Hired. Whatever." I rattled off the order, adding cinnamon sticks and breadsticks (my way of encouraging the manager to keep with the pizza coupon program), gave him my credit card number and told him I'd see him sometime after two. Then I sat back and stared at the coupon in my hand.

_THANK YOU FOR YOUR DONATION TO THE PTA!  
><em>_WHEN YOU PLACE YOUR ORDER,  
>REMEMBER TO MENTION YOU ARE USING A<em>  
><strong><em>* * * PTA PALS * * *<br>_**_COUPON. (CARRYOUT OR DINE-IN ONLY. NO DELIVERY.)  
><em>_GIVE THE __**BLUE HALF**__ OF THE COUPON TO THE CLERK.  
><em>_KEEP THE __**WHITE HALF**__ OF THE COUPON  
><em>_FOR YOUR TAX RECORDS.  
><em>_**$4 OF THIS COUPON IS TAX DEDUCTIBLE!**_

I grabbed the phone again, this time hitting #6. "Hey, Miyo, it's Sandy. Sorry to disturb your Sunday—do you have time to answer a hopefully quick tax question?"

"Sure. Could you give me ten seconds? I'm finishing up cleaning up a mess from breakfast."

Miyo? A mess? A mess in Miyoko's universe? Life as we know it just ceased to exist.

"The grandkids spent the weekend," she said as though I had asked. "They… _helped_ with brunch. I've been cleaning up for an hour—just—getting—the last—bits—"

I remember watching Ray and Barb's kids for a week. It aged me a year. I pushed away the resurgence of my _I can't do this! I'm too old! _fear_._ Maybe I can't—but Ducky can. Of that I was sure.

"There we go," she said with satisfaction. "Now. Question?"

"I'm using the PTA Pals coupons. I paid five dollars per pizza coupon—but it says _four_ is deductible. Why the difference?"

"Because you're getting something of value in return," she said promptly. "They're probably charging the PTA the cost of the pizza—a dollar. You're getting the pizza, so that's not deductible. The other four goes to the PTA, so that _is_ deductible. It's like that 'repair the old-time movie theatre' fundraiser you went to last spring. A hundred bucks a ticket, but the cost of the dinner was listed as twenty-five, so I could only put down seventy-five as a donation. Well, a hundred-fifty, since you took Dr. Mallard with you."

"Oh. Okay. I think I get it."

"Now, if you send in a donation, no strings attached, nothing given in return, the whole donation is deductible. Like all those sucker letters you respond to for Humane Society, North Shore, SPCA. I do, too," she laughed, before I could start to bristle.

"So I have to deduct those address stickers they send?"

"Nope. You made a no-strings-attached donation; they chose to send you a gift after the fact. Or if they give you a gift in advance but attach zero value to it, then the whole donation is deductible. Most people don't keep track of the five or ten they send in because they probably won't total to the standard deduction. _You,_ on the other hand, donate to every group that's out there, you softie. You _always_ make more than the standard, which is why I bug you for receipts all the time."

"Hold on a sec." I dug in my purse, pulling out the papers we had looked at the night before. "Any reason a charity would only ask for five, ten, twenty bucks? Their top asking amount is fifty."

"Laziness," she shot back with a laugh. "Anything under seventy-five dollars, they don't have to provide written documentation. Now, _you_ have to provide documentation—bank statement, receipt, whatever—which is why I've trained you to—"

"Ask for a receipt," I said in chorus with her. "But, wait—if I donate, say, ten bucks a month to the Humane Society, twelve months would make that a hundred and twenty dollars—"

"Right. But it was ten dollars at a given time. No disclosure statement from the charity would be mailed out—unless you request it. Most of them send it out, anyway."

I stared at the papers on my desk, the wheels slowly starting to grind. "Thanks, Miyo," I said absently. The wheels were picking up speed. "This has been… _really_… instructive."

"I'll send you a bill," she teased. "And it'll be a business expense."

I hung up the phone and let my mind tumble for a while. Then I pulled the computer out of sleep mode and wandered the internet, finding more tidbits, checking out websites—or not finding them, as the case may be—until Geoff and Evelyn showed up.

Valerie had corralled all the part-timers she had rattled off, as well as a couple more. And with the lure of free scholar dollars, Tim Walinski happily gave up his afternoon (hearing there was free food was the cherry on top). The pizza (and Bill Stewart) arrived just as everyone got the who's moving boxes to the lift gate/who's loading to the dollies/who's lugging to the storeroom/who's straightening stacks flow chart established. It was an extremely organized ant farm. Banished from actual work, I handled the rest of the business while people pulled dollies with one hand and ate pizza with the other (OSHA would have a fit; I've done it myself, so I didn't nag).

By five it was a done deal. Valerie not only coordinated the boxes getting in and unloaded, at least a third were emptied and tossed back in the truck, ready to go back to Reduce-Reuse-Renew-Recycle. (Brilliant concept. People only need boxes for a short time when they move (other than my eldest niece—who is _still_ not unpacked after four years). So long as you return them in good condition, you can rent small, medium or large boxes for fifty cents a day; extra large for a buck. Over a hundred boxes, half price; bigger discounts beyond that (let's just say I rented them dirt cheap). Buying the boxes from the cheapest source around would have run me more than I paid for the books—not to mention, having to store them someplace.) I was so impressed with my crew, I pulled money out of petty cash and slipped everyone an off-the-books-tax-free twenty. (Tim traded his back for extra scholar dollars.)

"When do you have to return the truck?" I asked Ev as she passed.

"Tomorrow. They close at six tonight, I figured no way would we be done before midnight, so I just rented it through tomorrow afternoon."

"Good. We can return boxes, drop off the truck, yadda, yadda, yadda." I threw an arm about her shoulders. "Come back to the break room. I want to borrow your brain for a while."

/ / /

"Brilliant." (Evelyn.)

"Devious." (Me.)

"Skunky." (Lily, back from the train station.)

"Federal crime," Mulder said, reaching for his beer. "I have a friend at the postmaster's office I'm going to call tomorrow morning."

"Simple—yet effective," Ducky said from the speakerphone.

I flipped through my Gift-o-Rama catalogue. "Page 21. 'Animal stationery—cats, dogs, birds or fish in pink, gold, lavender, blue or green, pastel with darker shadow drawings, thirty sheets, fifteen envelopes, single box two dollars, half a dozen of one pattern, ten, dozen of one pattern, eighteen or a dozen assorted—no choice of patterns or colors—fifteen bucks,'" I read. "Mary Martin got the lavender cat stationary as a thank you gift. Page 46, chunky bead jewelry—choker, three bucks, bracelet, two—" I slapped the catalogue on the table. "I didn't find Abby's dream catcher. Hopefully _that_ was a legit offering." (Unless it was from another company.)

"But how do they do this? How do they get away with it?" Lily asked.

We were parked in the break room; Valerie, Geoff and Marcy were doing the last-of-the-day wind-down for the store; everyone else had gone home.

"Well, the charities Mary Martin mentioned were bogus. I looked up Felidae—which means 'cat,' by the way—there's a mystery movie with that title, Felidae Conservation for wild cats, a cat food by that name… but this charity doesn't exist. I remembered seeing the brochure for the group home where 'Lindy Lou' lives, the little girl who 'made' this bracelet—couldn't find that charity, either, but I _did_ find a website selling jewelry and crap and the group home name was mentioned. If you read through it casually, it sounds like money is going to support handicapped kids. Read it more carefully, you see shades of gray."

"But wouldn't someone notice the discrepancies? Look at someone's tax returns and say, 'hey, that charity doesn't exist?'" Lily asked.

"Only if they get audited. And only if they're doing itemized deductions. If you take the standard deduction—and I'm betting most of the people there, do—the name won't come up. They keep the beg amounts low, fifty and under—thus, no tax forms." I pointed to the Felidae brochure. "The money goes to a post office box in Wisconsin. Someone probably just deposits it in a nationwide bank, one that the Romeros can access out here—banks don't care to whom the check is made out, they just process it. I screwed up and sent my check for the electric bill with the gas company stub—ended up with a credit on one and an underpayment on the other, messed me up for months."

"They probably have a different PO for every charity—smart, if they're hitting each mark for three or four charities," Mulder said. At my 'go ahead, go ahead' gesture he grabbed another slice of pizza.

"Hey, the legit charities I donate to are like four or five a month," Lily said.

"Right. Figure even ten bucks per 'charity,' that's fifty dollars a month. Even if they're only hitting half of the residents—" I punched keys on my adding machine. "Fifty bucks times a hundred and fifty is seven thousand five hundred a month. There's fifteen facilities, that's—holy crap! Over a hundred and twelve grand a month!"

"Which is why they want people who are in charge of their own finances," Ducky said grimly. "If you have someone at home going through grandmother's bills and wondering, 'hmm, I've never heard of this group'—your whole plan goes up in smoke. Plus, they control the mail coming into the facility; if a resident were to become suspicious, they could just stop mailers from that particular charity."

"Or send them a super special thank you gift. Mary Martin was thrilled to get that stupid box of stationery."

"So we know Martin and Shelly Romero are in on this for sure, right?" Mulder was scarfing pizza with one hand and making notes with the other. "Anyone else?"

I shook my head. "I doubt it. The more people who know the secret, the harder it is to control. And it would be easy to keep it to the two of them. Say they have—oh, fifty charities, one in each state. Fifty different PO boxes. There are companies that exist where all they do is forward your mail. It's popular with people who are traveling a lot or people who don't want to be found—abusive spouse situation, something like that. So they get the mail at box number one. Their instructions are to forward everything to another box. All fifty could be coming right back here to DC—or they could have the fifty go to ten, the ten go to five, the five go to a final one—just so there are more steps along the way to lose someone. Eventually it's back in Martin and Shelly's hands, gets deposited—"

"Then maybe transferred to an offshore account?" Ev suggested. I snapped my fingers and pointed to her in an 'attagirl' motion. "I mean, a hundred grand a month—"

"Is over a million dollars a year," Ducky finished. "_I'd_ get an offshore account. I know mother has her pet charities, and every month we write out checks, but as the years have gone on, she's had more and more pleas, groups and causes I've never even _heard_ of. She'd love to give money to them all, but if she did we'd be bankrupt in a year!"

"The elderly are too often easy targets," I said. I suddenly grinned. "I remember my mom telling me a story, some clown tried to scam my grandmother—told her she needed a new roof. Too bad she'd just gotten a new one about two years before. He did a high-pressure sell; she signed the contract—with the name of her best friend from college. He started ha-ha working, she called the cops—he was up on the roof when they pulled up, they just laid his ladder on the ground and they talked over the edge of the roof. Talk about a captive audience! Turns out he had a couple of hundred complaints against him across the country under about ten different names. _Nobody_ screwed over my Gamma."

"And how embarrassing to admit you'd been bested by a little old lady," Ducky laughed.

"There goes _his_ street cred," Lily said.

"So. I'll check with Owen first thing tomorrow morning. The cops would just toss the over to the feds, it's USPOD, still part of the government. We may as well start off where we're going to end up, anyway," Mulder said, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

"Hmm. I wonder if the FBI would be involved…" Ducky mused.

"Maybe," I said. "Don't tell me—you have a friend in the FBI?" I tried not to laugh.

"Well, more a friend of Jethro's. They have an ex-wife in common."

Evelyn gasped and then began to laugh. "That's one way to cement a friendship!"

* * *

><p>6<p> 


	7. I Always Take Life With A Grain Of Salt

A/N: Thank you, Miss Jayne, for your assistance regarding forensic evidence. As with the other research, any errors are mine and mine alone!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven: I Always Take Life With A Grain Of Salt… Plus A Slice Of Lemon And A Shot Of Tequila<strong>

* * *

><p>For an old lady, Victoria Mallard can sure move fast when she wants to.<p>

Charlie had promised Victoria an email at least once a day and she was ready to go at dawn's early light. But… there was a _problem_…

"Donald!"

The door to our bedroom flew open and Victoria stood there, surrounded by her canine retinue. Ducky yelped, "Mother!" while I shrieked in surprise and slipped out of bed. (We were both awake when the ajar door became a wide-open one. Good thing she arrived right then and not ten or fifteen minutes later, shall we say? We were discussing, um, ideas. Ahem.)

I gathered my wits enough to say, "What's wrong?" Foot slithered past the crowd in the doorway, jumped silently up and promptly went to sleep at the foot of the bed.

"My computer! My beautiful, purple computer!" Her face crumpled. "It's _broken_!" she sobbed. "It won't start!"

Ducky gave me a guilty look; mine was probably, 'I told you so.' He was in the habit of removing the power cord to keep Victoria offline during the night; he still had visions of her going somewhere she shouldn't and doing something she _really_ shouldn't. Until now, it hadn't been a problem; he just replaced it before she woke up.

But today she had a reason to be up before _he_ was. Disaster.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" I asked. I was 99% sure she hadn't.

She had to think about it. "No."

"Well, you need to have breakfast, first." I gave her a stern look. "Suzy says she's had to drag you away from the computer for lunch sometimes and that's _not good_."

She pouted slightly. "But I want to read Charlotte's email!"

Please. Lily took Charlie to camp on the train and got back just in time for pizza leftovers at the store. It was just barely 0610 on Monday morning. How many emails could be waiting? "You will. _After_ breakfast."

"Well, then?" She looked at me expectantly.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I sighed, dragging myself up from the floor.

"No, but I had hopes," Ducky muttered. I swatted his hand. Victoria didn't hear him; she turned around and we could hear her cane thudding quickly down the hall. "Ohhhhh… oh… my…" It was a sigh verging on a groan.

"What?"

"I just had a vision of being, ah, interrupted. By a toddler…"

"We'll lock the door," I suggested, stumbling off in Victoria's wake.

God, she was like a kid Christmas morning. I had to threaten to take her dressing gown belt and tie her to the chair to make her behave. At that, she was eating so fast I swear I saw sparks fly between her knife and fork.

"Slow down!" I felt like Mammy scolding Scarlett. "You won't be able to read your emails if you choke to death, will you?"

I managed to get her to eat some scrambled eggs with ham and cheese, a quarter of a cantaloupe, some toast fingers and a glass of cranberry juice; she kept trying to leave after every bite. I was ready to sit on her when Ducky joined us. "It's working again." (He wasn't stupid enough to admit he'd sabotaged the computer.)

"Oh! Oh, _thank_ you, Donald!" She gave him a big kiss on the cheek and started to rise. "Excuse me," she said almost formally, and hurried from the room.

"Oh, dear," I teased. "She's slithered down the road to hell—sitting in front of the computer in her robe and slippers. Next step, eating Cheetos and chugging Mountain Dew while she plays Ninjaquest all night."

He groaned faintly. "You deal with the children when they become teenagers."

(Children? _Ren_?) "Chicken."

"No, just a highly developed sense of self-preservation."

There was a squeal and the sound of clapping hands from the living room. "I'll be danged. I guess 'she's got mail.'"

"Donald! Cassandra! Oh, _do_ come!"

I made my way from the kitchen, Ducky shambling behind me. (I wonder if I'll ever find his rumpled hair, cockeyed glasses and off-kilter-tied robe not endearing. I hope not.) "What is it, Mother?" I asked.

"Look!"

Charlie's email was a ton of pictures from her first night at camp. _My cabin-mates: Julia, Solange, Tiffany, Carole, Ladonna, Renee and Z._ (Z? Maybe short for Zoe?) _Z and I are bunkmates—I have the top bunk, as she is quite the acrophobiac. The dining hall—dinner was actually very good. Mommy Evelyn had filled me with such horror stories, I was prepared to live on peanut butter and jelly crackers for the fortnight!_ (Fortnight. God, I love this kid.) _The computer lab—my fingers fairly twitch to get in and work! But never fear that I shall become a recluse. Just look at this lake! Doesn't it just invite you to dive in?_

It looked like the camp of my youth—except for the room full of computers that could pass for Kennedy Space Center. ("What did you do at camp?" "Launched a satellite into geo-synch orbit." "Oh… no birdcage made of Popsicle sticks?") Charlie's roommates looked like a repeat of her party—8 to 12 year olds, and a poster for diversity. Remembering my own white bread camp days, I couldn't help but approve.

Ducky leaned over and put his lips next to my ear. "Maybe we could go back upstairs, pick up where we left off…?"

The front door opened and Suzy's cheerful face peeped around the corner. "Good morning!"

"Or not," he sighed.

"There's always later," I comforted him.

"You're all up early."

"Mother wanted to get an early start on her email," I said with a laugh. Suzy gave me an expectant look. "Yep. Chock full of photos, too."

"Oh, good. I know she's going to miss Charlie dreadfully the next weeks. So will I," she admitted. "Coffee?"

"Thanks, yes."

"Should you be drinking coffee?" Ducky murmured as Suzy headed toward the kitchen. "Especially Suzy's?"

"Did you catch Gibbs' face Saturday night? I think he's in love. Bet he asks you for Suzy's number."

"He does love good coffee. But back to the point. Should _you_?"

"I've cut way back. Switched to juice and zero-caffeine sodas. This will be my first cup of coffee in a week, and I'll stop with one _small_ mug. I'm even drinking decaf tea. That will be my first question to Dr. Lester."

Two more days. "Fair enough." He kissed my forehead and held me in a loose hug.

"Ducky?"

"Mmh?"

"When we were in the kitchen—well, we never—it wasn't a—you said, 'you deal with the children.'"

"Oh, my dear. I was just teasing, I fully intend—"

"No, no, I meant—children. _Children_. How—how many children do you want to have?" I asked hesitantly. I held my breath.

He thought for a very short moment. "Why… however many we have. That's how many I want."

I gave him a skeptical look. "So—if I have, oh, six kids—" (Fat chance.)

"Then I shall expect to become quite proficient at putting together wagons and bicycles at Christmas," he said with a smile.

I bumped my forehead against his. "Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?"

He grinned the slightly lopsided smile that I love so much. "Occasionally."

/ / /

About the time I was debating over leftover pizza, forage in the break room freezer or call and see if Ducky was busy for lunch (the last one was clearly ahead of the pack), my cell phone rang. Mulder. "Hey. What's up?"

There was a heavy sigh. "I was wondering if you felt like visiting Neoma Keithley again."

"Sure, I guess. What's up?"

Another sigh. "I know she's probably going to blame me anyway. I just feel like I owe her the courtesy of telling her in person instead of seeing it tomorrow morning in the paper."

"Telling her _what_? That you suspect her granddaughter of impersonating her _other_ granddaughter? And a zillion dollars' worth of mail fraud? You think she won't tell Shelly?"

"No. I think she would. Which is why I plan to visit her later this afternoon."

"Could you pretend I can't read your mind, and fill in the blanks? Because I _can't_."

"Sorry. I just got off the phone from a long conversation with Owen. He asked me if _I_ was using a crystal ball."

Light dawned. "They already knew about Shelly."

"And how. They've been investigating for quite a while. I've got the exclusive story. In one hour, they're executing joint warrants at the Romeros' home and the facility. Since he's director of the tri-state area, they're seizing computers at all fifteen facilities, but they only have arrest warrants out for the two of them. Owen got the okay for me to be there at the bust—don't think Marty-baby will be thrilled to see me—but there's room in the car if you want to join Scully and me."

I almost said yes—then I remembered Friday afternoon. If Ducky want bananas over _that_ trip… "I think I'll sit out the _Untouchables_ part. But if you want me along when you visit Mrs. Keithley, sure. I feel sorry for her."

"I don't have to tell you, keep this to yourself."

"Ducky! Oh, Ducky was going to call his—Gibbs'—friend at the FBI—"

"Okay. Ducky, you can tell. No further. I'll call when I head over."

"Thanks." I rang off and dialed Ducky's number. "Hey, honey, have you called that friend of Gibbs' yet?"

"Yes—I was just about to call you. It was most surprising—Agent Fornell already knew about the mail fraud—"

"Because they're arresting Shelly and Martin in about an hour," I finished.

I could almost hear his shocked look over the phone. "Yes! How did you—"

I laughed. "Mulder's friend, Owen, told him. He asked if I wanted to go along on the bust. I said no," I added quickly, before he could begin having a heart attack. "But he wants to go see Neoma Keithley again. He says he'd feel better telling her in person instead of having her see it under his byline."

"Hearing that her granddaughter has been using her sister's credentials… _and_ the criminal charges…" He tsk'd. "Poor woman."

"Yeah—I'm not exactly looking forward to it—but I was there when we first found out about how Shelly was able to pull this off. So I feel I should be there, too."

"Please—be careful?" I know it killed him to give tacit approval to more PI work.

"I will, I will," I vowed.

"After all, we have plans tonight." He was trying for a teasing tone, but I could hear the concern underneath the words.

I grinned, thinking about our plans. "Honey, Ma Barker wouldn't be able to stop me."

/ / /

Like last time, I let Mulder take the lead.

He confessed his duplicity; she started to get leery.

He told her about the mail fraud; she was stunned into silence.

He explained that Shelly was misusing her sister's credentials—

Ho.

Lee.

Shit.

As a nurse, Suzy had been pissed about the scam. Mrs. Keithley was beyond pissed. She cursed. She yelled. She raged. She threw the picture with Martin and Shelly against the wall, shattering the glass. The most used words were "that bastard." Over and over. She clearly thought Mister had conned Missus into criminal activities. Maybe she was right.

"And he'll probably blame her for everything! And wives can't testify against their husbands!"

Mulder held up a finger. "Not _precisely._ They can't be _compelled_ to testify. Something tells me if he rolls on her, she'll sing the aria from _Madam_ _Butterfly_."

"Good," she snapped. "And then I can beat some sense into that girl. Good God, when Nee finds out—" She shook with inarticulate rage. (If the government wants to save the cost of a trial, just let her in the cage with Martin. Five minutes, tops. And she could probably make it look like an accident.)

"Mrs. Keithley?" I asked cautiously. "Is—is there someone you want us to call?"

The fire drained out of her and she sagged slightly. "This is going to kill Eric and Tina." Son and daughter-in-law, I presumed.

"Um—would you like us to call them? Have them come over?"

After thinking about it, she shook her head. "No. He'll be home in an hour, they just live a mile or so away. I'll… drive over." She slowly sank down onto the couch.

I reached over and timidly patted her hand. "I'm… so sorry."

She managed a flicker of a smile. "It's not your fault. Or mine." Her glance included Mulder. "Or yours." He smile quivered a little. "You know… if this weren't so… personal… it would have been interesting to tell people how I was part of your investigation…" She squeezed her eyes shut.

She looked so… broken. I moved closer and put my arms around her; her head fell on my shoulder and she began to cry. Mulder's look was clearly a mix of 'sorry' and 'boy, I'm glad you came along.'

Her tears slowed and ceased and she sat up. The look on her face was absolutely heartbreaking. "What will happen to Marie?" she finally asked.

Oh, yeah. Michelle Marie; to the rest of the world, Shelly. "I don't know," I said honestly. On the way over, I had listened to Mulder dictate notes to his message machine at the paper. Shelly, an accountant by training, had kept detailed books about their "income," even doing a weekly printout. Each charity had its own ledger. Her neat freak, attention-to-detail habits were going to be their undoing. "She's… in a lot of trouble." Queen of Understatements strikes again.

She sighed. There was a little quiver at the end. "I just _knew_ he was no good."

I kept my mouth shut. I was hoping it wasn't the reverse—that Shelly saw the untapped potential of the clientele and set up the operation.

Mrs. Keithley decided to drive over now, even though her son wasn't due home for another hour. I offered for us to follow her over, but she politely declined. I had horrible visions of her having a stress-induced heart attack on the way over, dying at the wheel—maybe taking out a school bus on the way. So I offered again, with slightly different wording. She kept demurring and gently rebuffing until I hit the right combination of words and she finally agreed. I wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer; I've been on the receiving end of Ducky convincing me to agree to something (for my own good, in his eyes), so I've picked up the rewording talent from the master. (I'm ready. Bring on the kid trying to 'why?' me to death.)

We followed her to a nice, if nondescript, brick house and waited, engine idling, until we saw someone open the door and Mrs. Keithley slip inside.

"Thanksgiving is gonna be _no_ fun at their house this year," I said with a sigh.

"We're trained to be objective. Neutral. Removed. It's the only way you can ask questions of a parent whose four kids just died in a house fire." I looked at him, appalled. "Well… I haven't been in that scenario, personally, but—" He shrugged. "I dunno, this one got to me."

"It's because you made friends with her. It was more personal." I could never be a reporter. I'm nosy enough, sure—but if someone came up to me with a microphone and asked, 'How does it feel to watch the plane with your entire family aboard crash on the runway?' they'd need a team of proctologists, asap. I could never be on the giving end of questions like that.

"Plus, it's really disturbing. Shelly was able to walk into at least one home care staffing office and bullshit them into believing she was a nurse. Now, granted, it sounds like she was very careful not to take any positions that were _real_ nursing spots. But how many people are out there without that tiny bit of scruples? People passing themselves off as nurses? Doctors? Surgeons?"

"Talk to Frank Abagnale," I said tiredly.

I could see wheels turning. This article on the Romeros might send him off into a whole new investigation and story.

/ / /

"Papyrus, Cassandra speaking, how may I help you?"

"Sandy! Hi!"

The voice was familiar… It took me a moment, then: "Fran! Oh, Fran, how _are_ you! We haven't heard a thing since your email saying you'd be arriving Wednesday morning, I figured you'd need a day or two to settle back in, but—well, we were worried!"

"Oh, Sandy, I am _so_ sorry… I just got so caught up in everything, it's just—" She whooshed out a breath. "Kind of crazy."

By silent agreement, Ducky and I had been avoiding the entertainment shows. "How bad has it been?"

"It… could be worse. They figured out I'd given them the slip. Dad said they started camping out on the lawn Tuesday morning. Cameron held a press conference—" I rolled my eyes. "And… he really chewed them out. He said if they had a shred of decency they'd leave me alone. He didn't come out and _say_ it—but it was hinted strongly that if a reporter were caught bothering me, they'd never get information on anything attached to him _ever_ again. Given that he's a big draw and has a couple of films out every year _plus_ the trial—they backed off."

"Huh!" He gets points.

"Yeah. For the most part. Some are being persistent. Cal said they've been calling like crazy—the receptionist has been told just to take a message. So at least they're leaving me alone, even though it's not because they're leaving me alone." She paused. "That didn't sound right."

I laughed. "I know what you mean, though. I'm just glad you're doing okay."

"So what's been going on around there?"

I sat with my mouth hanging open for a moment. Where to start? What to tell? (One thing _not_ to tell—yet.) "Let's see. We still haven't set a date, but I settled on a gown. I'm in the process of moving a lot of my crap into Ducky's house—which is going the break the laws of physics—because I have a real estate management company taking care of my place and they already have a tenant, ready to go, I've got until the first of September. Um… let's see, Neoma was gone by the time you set foot in the house, right?"

"Who?"

"Neoma Keithley. Actually, _not_ neoma Keithley, it turns out. The nurse-companion who was staying with Mother during the day turned out to be a fake—"

Fran gasped. "Oh, my god!"

"She was using her sister's credentials to get nurse-companion gigs where she could hunt down rich patrons for a local retirement home. Her husband is the general manager; they were scamming the clientele, hooking them up with fake charities. I, uh, snuck in dressed as an old lady—"

"Oh, my god!" Now she was laughing.

"Yeah, Ducky wasn't real thrilled. But they got busted—today, actually, they got arrested today. Um… oh, a former employee moved back to town. Her grandfather died under sorta strange circumstances about 30 years ago, leaving behind a locked safe with a briefcase full of old computer disks. Agent McGee is trying to decipher the data on the disks. Um… hm… Charlie's camp started early, we had a going away party for her Saturday. Oh, Chanda—she's the former employee—took over her grandmother's house, I bought most of the books that were left in the house. _Lots_ of books." I racked my brain. "Oh! Abby is dating Geoff."

"Oh, I knew _that_," she said.

"You did?" Was I the last to know?

"Yeah, he called while she and Misty were taking my latex off. Nothing dirty was _said_, but you can say a lot without saying anything." She sighed. "Boy, I'm not making a lot of sense today, am I?"

"I getcha, I getcha."

"Boy. You've had a crazy month."

_And you don't know the cherry on top of the sundae, cupcake._ I grinned. I had a feeling that Ducky's almost-daughter would be thrilled to find out she was going to have an almost-sibling. "How are _you_? Cal? Your dad? Your mom?"

"Oh—oh, Sandy…" She started to cry and I panicked. "She's coming _home_!"

I goggled. "Home? _Home_? _Really_—home? Not—not to be—but—that fast? That soon?"

"She'll be seeing her doctor as an outpatient, but—when Dad went to see her on Monday—" Now she was really crying, _weeping_, but it was still happy tears. "She was waiting for him. She had gotten up, gotten herself ready, dressed herself—and she sat on her bed, waiting for Dad… looked up at him and said, 'I want to go home.'"

"Oh—oh, Fran—" I was bawling like a baby. "I'm so happy!" I sobbed.

She laughed, still sniffling and gulping. "Yeah—we both sound _so_ happy," she managed.

I laughed—and we both fell into new tears. Life was looking up.

/ / /

"Madeline…"

I quirked an eyebrow. Neither Ducky nor I had ever slipped up and called the other by a former lover's name. "Madeline?" I repeated innocently.

The arm about me tightened slightly, and Ducky pulled me back against his chest. "Just thinking about names."

"Hmm. The _Madeline_ books by Ludwig Bemelmans… Madeleine L'Engle, those wonderful _Time_ books… Madeline Brandeis… Madeleine Albright…"

There was a soft chuckle in my ear. "I was thinking of names… as in… Madeline Mallard…"

Ah. Baby names. "Pretty. Alliterative, too."

"Perhaps we should avoid 'M' names. Maybe… Caitlin?" he said wistfully.

Hmm. He had never struck me as a trendy name person. Brittany, Tiffany, Caitlin… But the tiny sigh made me think there was a Caitlin in his past that he wanted to remember or honor. "Also a pretty name."

He was quiet for a moment. "I suppose anything but Daisy would be fine," he said with a small laugh. "I wouldn't want the poor child tormented in school."

Touchy subject. "Honey, with the last name of 'Mallard,' we could name the kid 'John' or 'Sue' and they'll still be teased," I said as gently as I could.

"You don't have to tell _me_," he said with a deep sigh. He had once told me he loathed the nickname 'Ducky' as child—but came to prefer it, finding 'Donald' too stuffy. That didn't erase the 'fun' of childhood, though.

"Granted, I've heard the little monsters turn 'Jacqueline' into 'Jack-o-lantern,' 'Martin' into 'Martian,' 'Elspeth' into 'Elephant Breath'—" Bullying isn't something that started in the 21st century.

"Let's take the baby and run away to a deserted island."

"Nah. I don't want to miss the next season of _Eureka_." I turned around in the circle of his arms and kissed the tip of his nose. "We'll just raise a kid who's secure in his or her skin, who's able to laugh it off."

"Children certainly seem much crueler than when I was a child."

"Well, I did okay until high school. Greek and Roman mythology in Freshman Lit—"

"Ah, yes. Cassandra—she with the gift of foretelling the future… and the curse that no one would believe her."

"Yeah, remember that the next time I warn you about something."

"Perhaps we should join forces, as it were. Talmadge-hyphen-Mallard."

"Is the hyphen silent?"

He threw back his head and laughed. "Yes. It's silent."

"Hmm… Lawrence Talmadge-Mallard."

"Elizabeth Talmadge-Mallard."

"Patrick Talmadge-Mallard."

"Marian Talmadge-Mallard."

I cocked my head. "Interesting. You're only coming up with girls' names."

"And _you're_ only coming up with _boys'_."

"Either way, Talmadge-Mallard is a helluva mouthful. Let's not do what Mrs. Pritchard did."

He looked at me in askance. "Dare I ask?"

"Neighbor down the way. Jane Pritchard. Husband is John Pritchard. She figured they had such plain names, her one and only kid deserved 'more.' She's a Shakespeare fan—problem was she couldn't decide. So she saddled the kid with Katharina Victoria—she's big on the British Monarchy, too—Katharina Victoria Eugenia Titania Hermione—_A Winter's Tale_, not _Harry Potter_—Portia Mayer-hyphen-Pritchard."

"You're making that up."

"Nope. How could I make up a string like that? She goes by KV, though her boyfriend calls her Katie Vic."

"Could we keep it to one or two names? Especially if we go for Talmadge-Mallard for a last name. I have visions of the poor child repeating first grade because she—or he—can't learn to write his or her own name."

"We could throw both our names in a hat and pick our five or six letters and all three of us take that name," I suggested.

"With our luck, we'd pull out M-L-D-T-G."

"Or A-A-A-A-E."

"We _are_ rather lacking in vowels."

"Between us, we only have eight different letters out of fifteen total. Not much to work with."

"At this point, I suggest Scarlett O'Hara."

"I am _not_ naming our kid Scarlett O'Hara!"

"No…" He wriggled us around until we were spooned together again. "I was thinking more along the lines of, 'let's think about this tomorrow.'"

I grinned into the semi-darkness of our room and hugged his arm against myself. "Excellent idea."

/ / / / /

"Are you busy for lunch?" Ducky's voice had a mysterious quality to it.

"Lunch with you? I can be un-busy," I grinned.

"It's not quite like last Friday—we'll probably just opt for sandwiches. But the, ah, floor show may prove entertaining."

"Floor show?"

"Agent McGee has extracted all of the information from the computer disks." There was a mumble I couldn't understand. "Pardon me. Correction—all of the data that was recoverable has been extracted. Gibbs' team is working cold cases today—if you _happened_ to be in the building and we _happened_ to be having lunch in Abby's lab—visiting, you understand—and Timothy _happened_ to stop in—"

I reached for my keys. "I can be there in ten."

/ / /

I made it in eight. (There was no line at the guard shack.) Ducky was waiting in the lobby. "Hello, my dear. Abigail is fetching lunch as we speak." He _very_ carefully clipped my badge to the button placket of my blouse, giving me a wink as he did so.

McGee was alone in Abby's lab; Chanda was on the phone, her voice coming through the speaker on the computer. "—everywhere! It's a good thing we were remodeling the kitchen anyway."

"Miss Talmadge and Dr. Mallard just joined us."

"Hi, Sandy!" she said cheerily. "Fancy a dip in the pool?"

"You're putting in a pool?"

"No—a pipe in the kitchen started leaking. Badly. In the middle of the night. We had over a foot and a half of water on the floor when we woke up." I winced. "Good thing the kitchen is a step-down from the rest of the house or we'd be _really_ screwed. I wanted to replace this ugly linoleum anyway!" she laughed. "Thank heavens for homeowners' insurance!"

"Boy, you've got your hands full," I sympathized.

"Yeah—so could I get a hand?" Abby's voice came from behind us.

Ducky beat McGee (and me) to her side. He took the top box and set it on the lab table, pulling off the lid. "Heavens, Abby, how hungry do you think we all are?"

"Well, I really like their chicken salad—they put chopped grapes in there—"

I burst out laughing and Abby stared at me. "Sorry, sorry," I finally managed. "It's just—that's one of Mother's favorite sandwiches because _I_ put chopped grapes in the salad, too."

"Oh. Well, it's good that way," she said reasonably. "So I got a second one to take home for dinner. Or snack. Or breakfast. And I told Tony and Ziva what we're doing, and both of them want to play hooky from cold cases, and both of _them_ are starvin' like Lee Marvin, so _they_ each got two sandwiches—I got chips and stuff in the other box and Tony has the drinks," she added. "Poor Gibbs," she sighed. "He and the Director are up in MTAC—" she caught sight of me and stammered. "Uh, working. They're… working. For quite a while."

Good. Even though Gibbs has at least _slightly_ warmed to me, there's a difference between breaking garlic bread at Ducky's and stumbling over me yet again in Labby. And, hey—I understand high security. I don't need to be privy to _anything_.

It was like being in a really weird artsy movie house. By the time Ziva and DiNozzo arrived with the drinks (thank heavens one of them was a root beer—no caffeine, and nobody minded that I snagged it), McGee had the jump drive loaded on a computer with a _huge_ screen and we had assembled chairs and lab stools from all corners of the lab in front of it. McGee narrated, Chanda tried to visualize what he was showing us (while dealing with assorted repairmen and what sounded like ten children) and we tried to keep the chomping and chewing noises to a minimum.

"Okay. As I explained to you and Miss—Cassandra—this weekend, the information Mr. Fairchild was going through was financial data. Invoices, order history, things like that. He was attacking the data from two directions. Quartermaster would compile stats and use it for target marketing, 'we see you regularly order—oh, a case of floor stripper every month, we have a new product, a floor sealer, which promises to cut your cleaning by two-thirds.'"

Ziva nodded. "'You recently purchased _Natasha's Dance, A Cultural History of Russia._ You might enjoy _Russia, The Once and Future Empire._'" At DiNozzo's look, she said, "Amazon dot com," almost defensively. I stifled a giggle.

"Exactly," McGee said, earning a smile from Ziva. "But he was approaching it from the consumer's side as well. People over-order and mis-order supplies all the time, even nowadays. Back then, only huge companies had computers, so unless you had only one person in control of your supplies—"

"That case of 'retro rocket red' photocopy paper has been in the copy room since before I started here," Tony interjected.

McGee nodded. "Mr. Fairchild was pulling raw data and writing a program so customers could get a report with what had been ordered, how much, when and by whom and so forth. They could control costs, prevent double ordering, free up money for ordering other supplies— He was using the companies that did the largest amount of ordering: the military and TRW Aeronautics." He clicked on a file. "These are scans of his journal pages. Unfortunately, his notes are in shorthand—and I don't mean the secretarial kind, I mean the little notes people make that only make sense to _them_."

I looked at the screen as McGee rattled off what he could interpret for Chanda. The notes were random; some neatly printed on a line, some off at a 45-degree angle and circled, some in a neat list, boxed-in… but they made little sense. There were also doodly-curly-q's, the things people scribble while their mind floats off.

FF?

USN USMC USAF USARMY

ACENG?

WV

NO PH

PO

The next page:

2/10 NET 30

MARK?

C/B AM, TOM

4-5-74

"Okay, I recognize that from business accounting." I pointed to the **2/10 NET 30** line. "If you pay your full invoice within ten days, you get a two percent discount. Otherwise, it's all due in 30 days. The other number—it looks like a date."

"What was it?" Chanda asked.

"Four-five-seventy-four," I answered.

She drew in an unsteady breath. "Grandfather—grandfather died on April fourth."

"Hinky coincidence?" Abby suggested.

"Coincidence? I doubt it," McGee said.

"USMC—US Marine Corps, USN, US Navy," Tony said around a mouthful of roast beef sandwich.

"ACENG—Army Corps of Engineers?" Abby suggested.

Tony saluted her. "NO PH. North Penthouse?" he questioned in a doubtful voice.

"No phone," Ziva said decisively.

"PO—Purchase Order? PO Box?" Abby cocked her head.

"Paul O'Neill? Personnel Office?" I sighed. We had no frame of reference.

Chanda had been listening without comment, but there were some quiet rustle-thump noises from her end. "Okay. My grandfather took pictures like he was doing a documentary, every time he did a project. I hunted through the attic the other day, I've got all of his photo albums—and that's a _lot_, let me tell you. Annnnnnd, I have the one for Quartermaster. Okay. Pages and pages of people. Shipping department, accounting, order processing and customer service, managers… so far I don't see anyone with the name Paul O'Neill. Most of them are just first names, though."

McGee had been looking at a different screen and put that data up on the larger screen, six invoices neatly arranged in two columns. "Okay. TRW… Same person ordering each time. Almost the same orders. First order had the largest amount of toilet paper… third order has the biggest order of magic markers…"

He clicked and another screen of invoices pulled up. "USMC. Parris Island… Quantico… Camp Pendleton… China Lake… Fort Gordon… Camp Lejune…"

"But the bill to address is the same," I pointed out.

"Only one person cutting the check. This way, it ships directly to the base, they don't have to pay to move it from point A to point B. That's not how they do it nowadays, it's all internal, straight from the supplier, no middleman." He put up another screen of invoices: six more, all billing—

"That invoice is different." Ziva saw it just as I did. She pointed to the screen. "One, two, three, five and six all bill to she same address as was on the first set of invoices. Number four is billing to a post office box in Virginia."

"Maybe they had one office handling bills for the eastern half of the country, one for the west?" Tony suggested.

She shook her head. "The first page had bases in South Carolina, Virginia, California—twice, Georgia, and North Carolina. All of those bills went to Washington, D.C.—as do five of the bills on this page." She reached up and tapped the screen. "This is an anomaly."

McGee made a 'hmm' noise. "Hang on…" He started tapping keys. "Since we converted the data to a format more compatible—"

Tony and Ziva exchanged bemused looks. Abby reached over and patted McGee's arm. "Before you geek out completely, remember the audience, Timmy." There was a faint giggle from Chanda.

"Okay," he said with a fairly patient sigh. "Have you ever used 'search' in a document? Maybe looking for a word you misspell regularly?" The right half of the screen on the computer began flipping through invoices, occasionally stopping to fling one on the other side.

Ziva nodded. "I frequently miss the 'i.' 'Said' becomes 'sad' in my report."

"I'm having it search for any orders with the PO Box as the bill to address."

"And it's finding them," Abby said in admiration.

"Twenty-one so far," Ducky said, looking at the bar that was counting secondary windows.

It only took a couple of minutes. "One hundred and eight, about eleven, twelve percent of the invoices. And there may be some that belong on that list that didn't pull up because of corrupted data."

"Odd. We have an invoice for the Marine Corps… the Navy… Army Corps of Engineers… National Guard… _Coast_ Guard…?" Ziva said skeptically. "All billing to the same PO Box—"

"And all shipping to the same address in West Virginia," Ducky pointed out.

"Perhaps… they were trying an experiment with centralized shipping?" Ziva suggested.

"West Virginia ain't central to anything but West Virginia," Tony said with a laugh. "Great geography skills." She smacked his shoulder.

"It could still be a centralized location if the price is right," Ducky said mildly. "But it's odd to have multiple branches of service using the same address…"

"Maybe someone in the supply chain was running a scam. Order a bunch of stuff, not pay—like what we thought at dinner Saturday night about the retirement home?" Abby suggested. "Who called in the orders?"

"Not called in," McGee corrected. He pointed to a corner of one order. The box next to "mail" had an X in it. "Ordered by… John James." Next order. "Mary Anderson." Next order. "Bob Smith… Tom Jones…"

I couldn't help but giggle. Tom Jones? Yeah. Right.

"Is it me, or do those sound like really bad aliases?" Tony laughed.

"All that's missing are John and Jane Doe," Ducky said. He neatly folded his sandwich paper and put it in the trash.

"Thank you, Ducky," Abby said with extreme politeness. She pointedly handed DiNozzo a handful of paper napkins.

"What?" he protested. She cocked her head and stared. "What? What?"

She grabbed a napkin and roughly scrubbed his cheek. "Eat mustard. Don't wear it!"

There was a snicker from the speaker. "Sounds like our house… So. Back to the topic. It looks like someone was scamming the government, stealing supplies, and my grandfather discovered it?"

"Well—yes. And no," McGee said slowly. "The invoices are all marked closed/paid. And a different person did the accounts receivable notation, so it wasn't someone embezzling at Quartermaster. I've seen, huh, six… seven… eight names…"

"And there are no…" Ziva frowned. "Big-ticket items?" McGee nodded. "Office supplies. Cleaning supplies. I don't see jeeps or rockets listed. You don't get rich embezzling thirty-two dollars' worth of toilet paper."

"And there's no pattern," McGee said. "Unless they had fifty people involved in this. Orders were picked by different people, packed by different people, signed off by different people."

"It has to be in there somewhere. It's just too—hinky," Ziva said. Abby beamed.

"Nine to five," Tony mused.

Ziva snorted derisively. "When have we _ever_ worked nine to five?"

"No, no. The _movie_." (Of course.) "Dabney Coleman, Dolly Parton, Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin? Middle-aged chick bonding flick."

The only middle-aged chick gave him a quirked eyebrow.

"Ah, yes." Ducky nodded. "Dabney Coleman's character was embezzling from his company, correct?" Tony nodded.

"And… the women thought they had killed him—" Ziva said thoughtfully. She was clearly thinking of parallels: Dabney Coleman embezzled from his company; someone at Quartermaster apparently embezzled stuff. Lily, Dolly and Jane thought they had killed their boss; someone actually _did_ kill Mr. Fairchild.

"And they fantasized about how they'd kill their boss," Abby burbled. "Dolly Parton turned him into a pig on a spit, Jane Fonda went hunting—in the office—"

"Lily Tomlin poisoned him—" Tony added.

"And how do _you_ plan to bump off the boss, DiNozzo?" Gibbs' voice from the door made everyone freeze.

"Gibbs! Not _you_, Gibbs!" Abby squealed. "Dabney Coleman!"

"Sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot," DiNozzo rattled off. Gibbs gave him an, 'oh, _really_?" look and DiNozzo flinched.

From where he stood, I was already half-hidden by a huge box with a zillion lights and readout screens; I scrunched down and tried to melt into the background.

"Not you, Boss. That was Dabney Coleman. His character, I mean." He gave himself a headslap. "Shutting up, Boss."

Gibbs slowly looked over the group. "Why… the _hell_… is everyone in Abby's lab?"

There was a tiny squeak from the speaker on the computer and he glared at it.

McGee exchanged nervous glances with Ziva and stepped up to the plate. "It—it's kind of a cold case, Boss. M—Mrs. Davis—s-she's on the phone, Boss—"

He launched into a long, descriptive tale about the hidden disks, Chanda's grandfather, the data he extracted… Gibbs listened _very_ carefully. Way too carefully. McGee emphasized that the military might have been ripped off for months, maybe years.

"_How_… long… ago?" Gibbs pinned him in his gaze and I wished valiantly that the flask on the counter behind me held an invisibility potion. Yeah, good luck with that.

"Uh—nineteen—seventy—four?" McGee said, the last word a bit of a squeak.

"Don't we have a case even _slightly_ more recent?" he asked with gentle astonishment. Chains were being yanked. "Maybe an _actual_ case?"

I had a feeling Chanda was trying to hide as much as I was.

"The accountant who was compiling the data was killed. A _Marine_, Gibbs," Ziva pointed out. "That puts it in our jurisdiction."

"And when was this reported to NCIS?" he asked patiently.

They all looked at one another and then the computer. "Um—Mrs. Davis?" McGee prompted.

"I—I don't think it _was_," she said. Her voice was hesitant; a lot of people sound that way around Gibbs.

"So… we never even _had_ a case even if we wanted to _call _it a cold case."

Hmm. Sounded like his interest was piqued. His eyes roamed over the computer screen while his subordinates exchanged glances. _Hey! He hasn't killed us yet! Cool!_

"None of the bases ordered the supplies?"

"Probably not," McGee answered.

"They never received the supplies?"

"Unknown. Went to a location in West Virginia," Tony pointed out the 'ship to' on the invoices.

"But _someone_ paid the invoices."

"Yes." Ziva pointed out the 'paid' flags.

"So… they're out of the loop. They didn't order the supplies—so it's not like they were 'out' something they were expecting. Everything is paid for, so they don't have unpaid invoices against them."

"We've eliminated the supply end—who picked the order, who signed off, it's all different. If this were 2004, not 1974, we could trace the footprints, cross-search for logins—"

Tony and Ziva exchanged amused looks. Tony held up his hand, fingers splayed, and mouthed, 'Five bucks.'

Ziva didn't respond. Something had caught her eye on the screen. "Is there a way to show more of the invoices, McGee?" she asked, interrupting his second geek-rant. She had her head cocked and was staring intently.

"Sure. How many?"

"All of them linked to this address."

"All one hundred and eight?"

"Can you pile them so they're—" She fluttered her hand in frustration.

"Tiled." A couple of clicks and there was a stack of invoices with the top one showing and a top line from the preceding invoices showing like it does when you play solitaire, stretching off into the horizon.

"Entered by… MXE." She pointed to one line on the top invoice. "Next." McGee clicked the invoice; it winked away and we saw the next one in line. "MXE." Click; wink. "MXE."

Gibbs shrugged. "The grandfather's initials."

"No." Chanda's voice was quiet. "Thomas Jerome Fairchild."

McGee was still clicking on invoices. MXE, MXE, MXE… "If they have twelve people pulling items to ship… and five or six supervisors to sign off on the shipments… and some ten people processing _payments_… do you really think there's only _one_ person processing orders?" Ziva said reasonably.

"Considering the thousands of orders they processed… easy enough to slip in a phony invoice here and there, especially where they'll see orders for some base, somewhere, every day," McGee mused.

"And if it was paid, the company wouldn't care," Gibbs said. Hey—he _was_ interested. He tapped the screen. "There's your starting point. Track down MXE."

Tony snorted. "You think he's still with the company? Thirty-five years later?"

Gibbs gave him a look of pure innocence. "Hey. You're the ones who 'opened' this case. Don't bitch to me when it gets tough." He turned and headed for the door and I sagged slightly in relief. "Afternoon, Miss Talmadge," floated back. Ducky and I exchanged a glance and he chuckled softly.

"Oh, jeez, guys, I'm so sorry," Chanda almost groaned. "I never meant for anyone to get in trouble!"

Ziva laughed. "We are not in trouble."

"Not even close. Of course, we're looking for a needle in an _old_ haystack—" Tony said.

"Maybe not. Hang on." We could hear the sound of heavy pages being turned along with a mutter from Chanda. "Milton… Martha… Marcia… Matt… Mike… Marcus… Max…"

Ducky's head snapped up. "Marcus?"

"Yeah. In—" She sucked in a small breath. "Data entry."

The copies of Mr. Fairchild's notes were minimized up at the top of the screen. Ducky tapped one and McGee expanded it. Ducky pointed to **MARK?**, heavily circled. "Mark. A common nickname for Marcus."

"H-hold on." Chanda's voice was shaking. We could hear the ft-t-t-t-t of the plastic cover on the page peeling back. "He put all the names on the backs of his pictures… oh, this is stuck but good…"

"Careful, careful," I cautioned.

"I… am… being…care… ful… Okay, there it goes… What were the initials?"

"MXE," we all chorused.

"Marcus. X. Everstead," she said. There was a quiver at the end.

"Okay. So it didn't take that _that_ long," Tony said defensively.

Abby pushed her foot on the floor, sending her wheeled stool spinning. "Google is my friend," she chirped. She skidded to a stop in front of a second computer. "Marcus. X. E-V-E-R-S-T-E-D?"

"E-A-D," Chanda corrected.

"Not a common name either way," Abby mused. "Let's see. Marcus Xavier Everstead. Article from Our Lady of Fatima, Knights of Columbus newsletter, he was the chairman of the food events for the Fall Bazaar last year… on the roster for the Lions Club… Board of Trustees for Our Lady of Fatima Prep… Owner and CEO of Atoz Supply House…"

"Stop. Hold up," I ordered. "Atoz?"

"Yeah." Abby clicked her mouse. "They're located in—"

"D.C.," I supplied. "Over on D Street."

She looked at me in surprise. "Yeah."

I stared at the screen. The MXE looked huge, the rest of the room tunnel visioning out of focus. "Atoz. Everything from A to Z. They have stuff nobody else can get." I turned and stared at Ducky; just past him, McGee looked at me and I could see a glimmer of recognition of our conversation from Saturday afternoon. "I order from them… all the time," I said slowly.

/ / /

"It is very disappointing when a suspect gives up so readily."

I had offered to drive Ziva over to Chanda's. She and Tony had returned in short order with Mr. Everstead; now she was going to meet the flatbed and supervise the removal of Mr. Fairchild's T-bird. "Oh?"

"Yes. Tony said, 'We'd like to talk to you about 1974, Tom Fairchild and Quartermaster?' he turned as white as a sheep and said, 'You can't prove I killed him.'"

"Oh, jeez."

"We reminded him that forensic evidence can stay viable for quite some time—and the vehicle was covered and sealed for all this time. He began to cry—" She looked faintly amused. "—and told us the whole story. I'm sure his attorney will try to get it thrown out, despite the fact that we read him his rights several times."

"So—what happened?"

"He was ordering supplies under the military account because Quartermaster gave them the largest discount. Essentially cost plus ten to twenty percent. He paid the discounted rate, then sold the items to other companies—selling them above the military discount, but undercutting even the Quartermaster rate, and keeping the profit."

"I can get it for you wholesale!" I sang and she laughed.

"Not a large amount on each order, but it mounted up. Had been doing it for years, stockpiling the money and researching the companies Quartermaster purchased _from_, planning to open his own company in competition—Atoz." She sobered. "The sad thing is, what he was doing was a minor crime. The company did not suffer—much—the military did not suffer, his customers did not suffer—his 'crime' was unauthorized use of the military discount. The penalty would have been relatively small, perhaps just a fine. But when Mr. Fairchild gave him a ride home and confronted him—"

"He fell apart and killed him?" I filled in. She nodded. "Wow."

Chanda's looked like she was hosting a repairmen's convention. There was a plumber's truck, an electrician's van, one from Nurit and Sons Appliance Repairs, a fourth from Disaster Recovery ("Fire? Flood? Storm? We'll get you back to normal!") (This house, normal? Forget it.), and a last one with the gas company logo on the door. The other end of the circular drive had a lone vehicle, a sleek black sedan.

"Insurance agent," Ziva said knowingly.

The girls were playing on the lawn with two more children who looked way too much like the girls to not be related. Ellie spied me and waved enthusiastically. "Hi! Aunt Sandy! Can we come to the store later?"

Resisting the urge to correct can vs. may, I called back, "Ask your mom!" Ha. 'Aunt Sandy.' I'd met the kid three times—she was a bookaholic, and smart enough to make nice to her supplier. (I would have done it at her age, too.)

"This is my cousin, Linda, and my cousin, Don. They like to read, too!" she added with a hopeful look.

"Bring 'em along! The more, the merrier!"

Leaving Ellie to plot with the others, we entered the open door. Chanda was deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman in a dark blue skirt and jacket set ("Insurance agent," Ziva murmured again.). From the kitchen came assorted clangs, bangs, whumps, unintelligible loud voices and the high whine of a super sucker vacuum. Chanda spied us, wound up her conversation with a handshake and hurried over as the woman picked up her briefcase and left.

"Hey! This is actually going to be a good thing, as Martha Stewart would say."

Ziva laughed. "A good thing? How so?"

"We were going to replace the appliances and upgrade the plumbing and wiring and call it good for a couple of years. We were working around the old cabinets and the floor because the budget would just not stretch that far. The wood is old and dry, and the flood caused it to warp and crack. Cheaper for the insurance company to replace it. Same for the floor. Two walls are brick; they're okay. The other two swelled up like my legs did when I was pregnant." (Why, oh, why did she have to choose that as a simile? I could feel my ankles puff in response.) "So the insurance is going to cover a lot of work we wanted to do but couldn't afford." She looked thoughtful. "I wonder if I could get the pipes to burst in the upstairs bath…"

"I wouldn't chance it. With your luck, that big bathtub could end up on your dining room table," I cautioned.

"Point." She motioned for us to follow her out the side door. "Okay. The plumber was kind enough to cut off the lock and chain on the chain link gate—it's the far path of the roundabout that led to the garage, the original carriage path. It's not paved, but the dirt is really hard packed. We got the gates open, it should be okay to drive in…"

She kept up a line of chatter as we followed her to the far side of the property. The fence and double gate (which I had somehow missed on my first visit) were covered by ivy a couple of feet thick. Perfect house for bugs and spiders and lizards and mice and—euuuu!

Finally we ended up inside the old garage. Chanda stared at the swirls of dirty shrouding. "Is there—really—evidence in there?" she asked hesitantly.

"Possibly. Our forensic specialist is the best there is. If there is anything to be found—Abby will find it." Ziva radiated confidence.

How good would thirty-plus year old evidence be? Probably not that good. But since Mr. Everstead had been falling over himself to confess, it was probably more as a backup. But what do I know? I used to think CSI was marginally real, that you can get a DNA match in 15 minutes. (Boy did Abby teach me otherwise.)

Chanda nodded absently, still staring at the car. Ziva's phone chirped; she read the screen and chuckled. "'How the hell do I get in?'" she read. She trotted back toward the street.

Chanda shook her head. "It's weird. It hurt _less_, thinking it was a random stranger… Agent DiNozzo said my grandfather had confronted Mr. Everstead, that he panicked and killed him?" I nodded. "I just… don't… understand. I mean, if your life is in danger… but… I mean, he probably wouldn't have even gotten jail time."

What Ziva had been saying about ten minutes before. "Yeah. But from his warped point of view, his life would have been ruined. You know—'reason for leaving position?' 'Fraudulently used military discount to divert company product which I then sold at a profit. But I was never tardy or absent.'" That made her laugh. A little, anyway.

It took some back-and-fill moves, but they managed to get the flatbed lined up with the far side doors. (I was impressed. I probably couldn't have pulled it off with my van, and it isn't even half the length.) Ziva and the driver—who wasn't some clown from the local lube-and-tune joint, he wore an NCIS jumpsuit—conferred quietly off to the side; from what I could overhear, there was concern about the dirt on the tarps. She pulled out her phone; all I could hear was, "Abby?" then the rest was a mumble. She nodded frequently, either in affirmation or understanding, then shut her phone. From the bag on her shoulder she pulled out a nifty digital camera and walked around the car, taking a couple of dozen photos.

"I—I'd better check on the kids, they've been quiet too long…" Chanda edged away, eyes locked on the car, backing away through the set of doors closer to the house. I wouldn't say she was fleeing—but it was obvious she was becoming uncomfortable with the scene and wanted to be anywhere but there. Couldn't blame her. It was one thing to know the vehicle in which your grandfather was killed is sitting in your back garage. It's another thing to hear people talk about preserving evidence, blood soaking the upholstery and so on.

I'm a nosy bitch. I stayed. After Ziva finished her photographs, she and the driver put brand-new tarps over the dirty ones and cinched them down, then basically wrapped the whole thing in plastic wrap. Time consuming, but easier than the last stage—winching the car onto the flatbed. Normally not a difficult maneuver, it was made so by the lack of tires. More tarps padded the ground up to the flatbed; they moved it inch by inch, trying to keep the dirt from the ground transferring to the rims.

"Didn't think it would be this hard," I said. Ziva was keeping pace with the slowly moving car, ready to yell to the driver to stop if it needed tweaking; I followed her path, just a few feet behind her.

"Normally we would simply cover the vehicle, put it on the flatbed and leave. But the dirt on the tarps and the dirt on the ground complicate things slightly. The ground is easily enough dealt with, as you see. We had to seal the car as is without removing the tarps."

"To keep the dirt from falling in? Why not take them off?"

She shook her head. "The tarps may have kept evidence trapped inside. It is better to transport as is, remove them at NCIS."

"Ah."

I stayed until the car was loaded and they had chugged through the ivy-laden fence. I wandered slowly back to the house; this had been even more surreal than when David died and I was the #1 suspect. The first half of my life had been so boring; in less than one year, I had been a suspect in one death, friends with two people who had almost been murdered (by the same person, no less), and stumbled over two con jobs—one which had ended in murder. If this year has been karma making up for things being so boring up to now—I'm done! Enough! I would like the next year crime-free, thank you. The next fifty, for that matter.

Chanda was in the kitchen, squatting on the floor and conferring with the plumber who was pointing to something under the sink.

"They're gone," I said.

She nodded, sighing heavily. "What a day, what a day, what a—"

"M-_**o-o-o-o-o-o**_-_mmm_…"

Chanda rolled her eyes and looked past me. "Ellie, honey, I'm sorry. The kitchen is still out of commission."

"We're _bored_."

"You have a branch of Toys R Us upstairs. There are probably thirty 'outside' games, alone. Not to mention, books. And books. And _books_."

"But we've read them all!"

"Fat chance," Chanda muttered. "I'm sure Linda and Don haven't read all of _your_ books," she said with amused patience.

I turned my head slightly and glanced out of the corner of my eyes. Ellie was giving her mother puppy dog eyes. The kid has huge brown eyes and she knows how to use 'em.

"Honey. Please. Not today." Mom was wavering.

"But I've earned twenty dollars in credits!"

I was pretty sure what she was angling for. "I could take the kids off your hands for a while," I offered, even as my saner side tried to clamp a hand over my mouth. Hey—she was still fielding a disaster; she needed a break.

"Jerry won't be home until at least six. We wouldn't be able to pick them up before then." But she looked like she was considering it. "I'm betting you don't have car seats and boosters in the van."

Not since Ray's kids grew up. Over ten years. "Uh—no."

"You took them out of the minivan before it went to the shop," Ellie whispered.

Which is how I ended up with two kids in the back seat of _my_ van. (Chanda's sister-in-law showed up to collect her sprogs—Chanda had been sitting while mom went to a doctor's appointment—and caved to the 'please, _please_, we wanna go to the store!' cries. So at least I had backup.)

Valerie did a double take when I walked in with a kid hanging on each hand. "You come back from lunch with interesting leftovers."

"Har, har." I gave her the short version of Chanda's disasters—and a _very_ edited version of what had been discovered with regard to the computer disks. "Chanda and Jerry will be by six or seven-ish to pick up the kids and the car seats."

Valerie cracked up and almost fell off her chair. "_You_ put in car seats?"

"I have many talents." (Chanda did it.)

She waited until the girls had disappeared around the corner to the kids' section. "_You_ are babysitting," she said in a similar tone.

"I have many talents," I repeated. (I need the practice.)

She chortled. Evilly, I might add. "I'll watch the counter. _You_ are going to be _busy._"

I was. I was hyper-alert; any stranger even glanced at one of the girls and I was poised to spring into action and take them out. Terry, on the other hand, was perched in the chair at the end of the mystery section, nose buried in _Inner Sanctum Mysteries: Behind the Creaking Door._ But she wasn't missing a thing—when Don and Linda started a silent tug-o-war with a hardback of _The Lives of Christopher Chant_, her eyes never left the page. She snapped her fingers, amazingly loudly; the kids froze. One finger went up. Two fingers. As the third finger went up, Don gave up his hold on the book and grabbed the paperback of _The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Volume 1_. It wasn't a hardback, but, hey, it contained _The Lives of Christopher Chant_. Good enough. (I have to wonder if this ESP is a talent you get in the delivery room, when they hand you the kid and the instruction manual. (You _do_ get a manual, right? Right?))

An hour or two later, the six of us ended up on the floor in the middle of the kids' section playing Upwords as teams. Terry and Lee-Lee (with Don, the eldest, to balance out) versus yours truly and five-and-a-half Ellie and seven-year-old Linda. I dragged out two fat children's dictionaries and set up the plastic playing grid on a low table.

Lee-Lee actually pointed out the first word for her team (it probably helped that the tiles were in word order on the rack): R-O-B-E. Ellie changed one letter, making it R-O-L-E. Terry changed it to T-O-L-E, giving the kids a quick definition of the word that wasn't in either dictionary. Ellie changed one letter and added four more; her "Woo-hoo!" dance around the far end of the store was justified by T-A-L-E-N-T-E-D, in my opinion. Just as Don was warranted in a slightly smug look when he turned it into R-E-L-E-N-T-L-E-S-S.

"Having fun?"

I looked up; Ducky stood at the edge of the YA section, cell phone in hand. I was pretty she he'd just snapped a picture of us. "Yes, we are. And some of the customers have seen how much fun we've been having, we've sold three more game sets, so _there_, smarty-pants." Ellie giggled. "Casual introductions. You know Ellie and Lee-Lee—"

He leaned over and shook hands solemnly. "Ladies. Lovely to see you again."

"Terry—" I looked at her questioningly.

"Sullivan," she supplied, holding out a hand.

"Chanda's sister-in-law. And her children Linda, and Don. Everyone—this is my fiancé, Dr. Donald Mallard."

"Yes, another Don," he said with a smile, shaking hands with the lone male in our group. "But everyone calls me Ducky."

"Would you like to join us, Dr. Mallard?" Terry asked.

He shook his head. "I'd hate to disrupt the balance. I'll enjoy the game from the sidelines."

"You _could_ play both sides," I suggested. I got a tiny flash of a look that told me he was turning it into something mildly dirty. At least, I hoped so.

We had just wrapped up the game when Jerry and Chanda arrived to collect the kids. Ellie cashed in her "credit" (she grabbed the entire Madeleine L'Engle _Time_ series; discovering she still had two-fifty, she went back for _The Velvet Room_ by Zilpha Keatley Snyder and a second copy of _The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Volume 1_ for her 'spend $20, get a free paperback' choice), Lee-Lee was reminded she had credit from chores performed at home, too (Chanda helped her choose a stack of Dr. Seuss books—how she was still missing any after her last trip was beyond me) and Terry took the Upwords we had been playing for her crew.

Valerie cocked her head. "So. You won't be in tomorrow." It was a statement, not a question.

"Nope." I hadn't told her about the appointment at Dr. Lester's; she just knew I wasn't coming in.

"You're just bailing to get out of reading for Story Time."

I sighed heavily and sagged dramatically. "Damn. She found out." I smiled brightly. "Have fun!"

"We're low on Story Time snacks!" she called after me.

"No, we're not!" I yelled back. "Went shopping this morning, check the storeroom!"

Ducky's Morgan was parked next to my van. "Suzy called. Mother got a flier in the mail from that dreadful Mexican restaurant she loves, begged Suzy to go. So—" He stepped closer and dropped his voice (even though nobody was around to overhear). "We… are on our own… for dinner."

I reached up and straightened his slightly off kilter tie. "And dessert?"

He grinned. "Absolutely."

/ / /

"Oh!"

Ducky looked up from the side of the bed, where he was turning down the covers. "What?"

"Falling star!"

He walked over to stand next to me, looking at the sky. The burning meteorite was already gone. "Make a wish?"

I smiled up at him. "Already got my wish."

He slipped his arms around me. "So have I." We stood for a while, a congenial twosome. "Cassandra…?"

"Mmh?" I was too comfy, arms draped around his waist and head snuggled against his chest, to move much.

"I just… after this afternoon… well, you needn't worry."

Worry? I frowned. Worry? I tipped my head back slightly. "Worry?"

He touched his fingertip to my chin and smiled. His eyes were glistening just a bit. "You… are going to be… a _fabulous_ mother."

I snuggled back against his chest, smiling happily. Okay—maybe there was a second wish on the list.

* * *

><p>7<p> 


	8. Sometimes You Have To Build Your Own

**Chapter Eight: Sometimes You Have To Build Your Own Rainbows**

* * *

><p>I don't care what the computer geeks in my life say; we will <em>never<em> be a paperless society. If you doubt that… go to the doctor's after a long hiatus. Twenty minutes later you're done—and need to make a second appointment with a different doctor for your brand new case of writer's cramp. (If you're a new patient for that second doctor, you're looking at another forty minutes for even more paperwork.)

I huddled in a corner with Ducky, filling out questions from the boring (name, age, weight) to the baffling (I have no clue if any of my female relatives have had a miscarriage; I grew up in an era when that was considered private and personal and they kept it private and personal), then trying to keep from staring at the other women in various stages of gestation. (It was difficult. One woman was so, um, round I was afraid she was going to pop any second. Another looked so young I had a hard time believing she had even graduated high school. She started chirping to the stone-faced woman next to her (her mother, I quickly realized) about how great it was that having appointments at this time of day would get her out of algebra this coming semester… and it dawned on me that she hadn't even graduated _junior_ high school. I quickly turned away to grab a magazine from Ducky's other side and found him studiously scrutinizing the fingernails on his neatly folded hands; from the flick of his eyes I knew he had heard, interpreted and was equally stunned and/or appalled. Maybe fifty-one _is_ a tad on the old side—but twelve is way, _way_ too young.)

We had plenty of time to engage in people watching and the thumbing of books and magazines. We were early. Very early. One, I hate being late. Two, I knew there would be paperwork up the wazoo. Three… I was hoping Dr. Lester might be running ahead of schedule and we could sneak in before our scheduled appointment.

No such luck. She was actually running a little late; a C-section that morning had run into a minor snag (just the thing my nerves needed to hear) and she was doing her best to get caught up. And she actually was getting close to caught up—from being two hours behind at the start of the day, she was down to being a mere forty-five minutes. (As we waited I checked my phone and found the message on my voicemail from the receptionist asking if I wanted to reschedule or take my chances being late. Where it had disappeared for almost six hours, I don't know. But my answers would have been 'no' and 'yes' anyway.)

By the time the receptionist led us in to Dr. Lester's office, we were still at the behind-by-forty-five mark, but several of her afternoon patients had decided to reschedule rather than run the risk of having their appointments run into the nine o'clock news. "So, by six o'clock I should be back on schedule—through only small effort on my own," she said, waiving us to two comfortable chairs on the patient side of her desk. She noticed Ducky's interest in the lift control on one of them and laughed. "When I first started my practice, I actually sprained my back helping one expectant mother out of her chair. I went out the next week and bought a lift chair and I've had one in the office ever since."

"Very wise."

"Dr. Lester, this is my fiancé. Donald Mallard, Dr. Donald Mallard. It's okay for him to be in here, yes?" I hadn't realized how very much I wanted Ducky in there until I heard the "please, please?" in my voice.

"If you want him in here, then he is quite welcome. Doctor?" She looked at him curiously. "GP? Specialist?"

"Medical Examiner," he said with a disarming smile.

"Oh!"

"NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigative Service," he elaborated at her slightly confused look.

"Interesting. Between us, we cover the spectrum of a person's life. Beginning—to end."

"All we need is a pediatrician, GP and a geriatric specialist and you could all go into business together," I tossed out.

"I doubt I'd have many patients calling in for appointments," Ducky said with a teasing look over the top of his glasses.

"Touché."

"So. I understand you've taken a home pregnancy test and it is indicating you might be pregnant." I pulled out the first test, neatly ziplock-bagged, and handed it to her. "I love this test. Nice shade of blue, by the way. Now, sometimes it can give you a false positive—"

I beat her to the punch. I pulled out the larger ziplock bag with individually bagged tests and handed them over.

"Oh, my god," she gasped. I thought she was shocked, then realized she was shaking with silent laughter. She gave in with a whoop and another, "Oh, my god!" and fell back in her chair laughing to the point of pulling her glasses off and wiping the tears from her eyes. "I've had patients repeat a test once, twice, sometimes even three times—but this…!"

"Well… they sell them in multi-packs at Costco," I defended myself. "And I rather doubt we'll run into this situation again, so, I may as well use them all…" (If being pregnant at fifty-one was making me lose my marbles, imagine fifty-two, fifty-five or…oy!)

"Cassandra is a very thorough woman," Ducky said. He reached over and squeezed my hand.

"Very," Dr. Lester agreed. "And our test shows another positive result, making it a nice even fourteen."

_Instead of unlucky number thirteen_, popped into my head. "So… now what?"

"We'll do a physical exam, including two types of sonogram—hopefully we can see what's causing that bellyache you're bellyaching about." She gave me a reassuring smile. "If you would like D—Donald to be in the exam room, that's perfectly acceptable." From her stumble, I guessed that she was heading for the professionally courteous 'Dr. Mallard' and substituted the more common in this situation and less formal 'Donald' on second thought.

I'm pretty sure she'd rather be able to be one-on-one with her patient—and much as I was glad beyond words to have Ducky _here_, I didn't really want him _there_. "Honey… naked with you is one thing—"

He held up a hand. "Say no more. I completely understand. There was a time when my patients _and_ I conversed instead of it being a one-sided conversation." He glanced toward the bookcase. "There are some interesting reference books I see that normally wouldn't cross my path—"

"Please. Feel free. Would you like some tea while you're waiting? Most of what we have is herbal—most of the women prefer them, even though decaffeinated tea is fine and we have several varieties of decaf—"

Answers my question about caffeine being on the yea or nay list.

"But I drink a gallon or two hi-test instead of unleaded, so we do have a stash of 'normal' tea as well." She rattled off several varieties. "How do you take it?" she asked as his eyes lit up over Earl Gray.

"Milk, if you have it? Or plain is fine."

"Cream? Half and half, actually," she clarified.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

"I'll ask Becca to bring some in. We'll be back in about twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes? Try twenty hours. At least it felt like that.

No matter how much I like Dr. Lester (and I do; she's a hoot, next to the stacks of baby and parenting-themed magazines in the waiting room you'll find multiple copies of Erma Bombeck and Jean Kerr books and collections of For Better or For Worse and Baby Blues cartoons strewn about), I don't like going to the doctor, period, and my yearly exam is nowhere near the top of my list. So the first thing she did was gently scold me for missing the last, er, five yearly exams. I made a show of hanging my head, stubbing my toe against the linoleum, wringing my hands and lisping, "I'm sowwy, Doctuh Lethtuh."

"You should be," she retorted. "I changed the gowns just because of you."

"Yeah?" She's one of the few doctors I know who doesn't use the paper throwaway gowns, which was nice—but she used boring, basic white and yellow (carefully avoiding pink and blue). I had suggested patterns—but the half of her patients who were expecting were probably sick to death of teddy bears, ABC blocks, and stuff like that, how about something more interesting? "So, what did you get?"

She opened a cupboard. "Take your pick. And then get changed. I'll be right back."

I eyeballed the stacks and grinned. It looked like she had gone with a scrubs supplier—there were prints of cartoon cats, cartoon dogs, bugs and flowers, classic comic strips, polka dots, stripes—you name it. I grabbed one decorated with a beautiful beach scene—rolling waves, sailboats, even an island in the distance with tiny palm trees. _Hmm. Wonder where Ducky would like to take our honeymoon… better plan that soon, it would be hard to reserve the honeymoon suite and ask for a crib, too._

I waited on the exam table, practicing my Zen breathing in the hopes of lowering my blood pressure. No such luck. I was tense, tense, tense.

Dr. Lester knocked and entered the room. "Relax…" She patted my shoulder.

"Easier said than done," I muttered.

"Have you ever had a sonogram before?"

"I've never been _pregnant_ before," I reminded her.

"Oh, OB's don't have a lock on the technology—it's very helpful for gallstones, heart blockage…"

"Hmm. Well, no, I've never had one. Only surgery I've ever had was my appendectomy. And that was in high school."

"Okay. Fast lesson in ultrasounds." She showed me the external scanner, the one that would be used internally, the conductive gel, the sonogram unit itself and told me how it bounces harmless waves and creates a picture on the screen, much like sonar the Navy uses. She made sure to assure me that it was _not_ like an x-ray, and was totally harmless to 'anyone or anything.' "Now, you won't be able to see the screen. This is for two reasons. One, it's cramped quarters to get you, me, the exam bed and the scanner in this area. I _have_ to see the screen; you _don't_. Two, reading a sonogram screen is not like Magic Eye or Where's Waldo. It's very easy for an untrained eye—"

"To imagine all sorts of things," I finished. She nodded sagely. "You don't need to warn me. I've had customers share their sonogram pictures and say, "Oh, look! There's his head, there's his hand—" and I'm thinking, 'Thank god I didn't say anything, I thought that was a storm front circling over Boise.'"

She laughed. "Yeah, I was doing a sonogram on a patient who was in the early stages of labor, her husband had been pretty blasé about the whole pregnancy—he looked over my shoulder and yelped, 'Jesus Christ, that kid is hung like a horse!'"

I shook my head, chuckling. "Men!"

"Yeah. Darn near broke his heart when I said, 'That's the umbilical cord.'"

I clapped my hands over my mouth and tried to stifle my laughter. Didn't work. But her probably apocryphal story eased some of the tension. I arranged my body as she indicated… then nearly jumped to the ceiling when she squirted the gel on my stomach. "Holy crap, do you _freeze_ that stuff?"

"Oh, Sandy, I'm sorry! You even told me this was the first time and—" She sighed, "Is it too late to warn you the gel is kind of cold?"

"Yeah. I think so." Cold. And gooey. Yuck.

"I'll warn you if I have to reapply."

I lay back and tried to let my mind wander. It refused. I took in every minute bit of the exam. The pressure of the scanner against my skin. The odd movements Dr. Lester made, moving it by microns, then picking it up, wriggling it and starting over in the same area (what did that do, erase it?). The sudden stop, press down… and the click of a computer key. "Just getting a static image as well as video," she said in a slightly distracted tone. She was focused on the screen but still remembering to tell me what the hell she was doing; distracted tone was okay. Throughout the exam she hummed softly, tunes I couldn't recognize but were pleasant and soothing. Every few bars she'd break off and ask questions—where did I meet Ducky, how was the store doing, what's new… I told her about the absurd way Ducky and I had _really_ met the year before (ignoring the times he'd wandered in and out of the store until then), the recent chaos with Lily, Fran—not to mention, Victoria… She listened, commented when appropriate—but her concentration was on the computer screen in front of her.

"This gives a different angle on things…" Well, yeah, a magic wand stuck six inches into your body _would_ get a different perspective. But compared to other exams, it wasn't _that_ bad. But I was glad when the whole thing was over.

"Okay. The images will be available in my office... Now… one question… You want to see things for the first time alone? Or with your fiancé?"

"With… with Ducky," I said slowly. I didn't know if this was the normal question or if there was something wrong. If there _was_ something wrong… yeah, I wanted Ducky there. His medical training would probably mean he'd know better questions to ask—but, regardless, even if he were a ditch digger, I'd want him there. But while I had been off-and-on scared for the past week and a half, now I was a little scared in a whole different direction.

_Borrowing trouble, borrowing trouble, no sense borrowing trouble…_ Gamma's pet phrase circled around in my head as I hurriedly pulled my clothes back on and went back to Dr. Lester's office. Even still, I hesitated for several seconds, hand on the doorknob… then pushed the slightly ajar door open all the way.

Ducky was there, alone, nose buried in a book. He looked up as the door opened and gave me the who-cares-about-that-hurricane-warning-everything-is-peachy smile that makes me immediately feel better. He quickly set aside the book and hurried to meet me at the door. "How are you, dearest?" He took both of my hands in his and gave me a quick kiss.

"It was just an exam, Ducky. Physical, not final doctoral," I joked feebly. He still gave me a grin like I was the wittiest thing in blue jeans.

"Whoops!" We both jumped as the door opened again and bumped us. "I'm so sorry!" Dr. Lester looked aghast.

"Barely connected," I assured her.

"We're at fault for standing in the path of the door," Ducky added.

"I knock on all the exam doors, it never—" She looked truly distraught.

"It never occurred to you to knock on your own office door—and there's no reason it should have," Ducky said soothingly. He's very good at calming people down, and Dr. Lester was no exception.

With a look of thanks she went to her desk and turned her computer monitor around to face us and brought her wireless keyboard over to where we had been sitting earlier. She caught my eye and patted the seat closest to the desk; I sat, and she wheeled an exam stool over from a corner and scooched in. She gave a gentle 'come here' waggle of her fingers; Ducky was standing hesitantly just out of range. He walked over slowly and took the remaining seat. It was the first time I'd seen him look rattled; well, hell, this was the first time he'd been in this situation. (It was the first time either of us had been in this situation.)

"So." Dr. Lester reached over and patted my hand. "You had a pretty, well, interesting past couple of months, hmm?" She had a small, understanding smile on her face.

She _had_ been listening. "You could say that."

"And the past week and a half on top of that… it's been a lot of upheaval in your life, both of your lives."

I laughed shortly. "Can't say it's been boring."

Dr. Lester's smile faded to almost nothing. "Sandy…" Her hand squeezed mine, very lightly.

_Oh, shit._ I stopped breathing.

"I'm sorry… you're _not_ pregnant."

It took a minute to really sink in. "Not?"

She shook her head.

"Okay… okay, I know I'm not the science whiz of the year but, even I can't screw up _thirteen_ pee tests. Plus the one your tab tech did. _Fourteen_ false positives?"

She let out a small breath. "There are other things that can cause your endocrine system to mimic a pregnancy—"

She said more; my attention was distracted by the tiny, faint intake of breath from the gentle, loving man barely a foot away from me. I tried to look at him without _looking_ at him, my heart going triple time. _He's a doctor. He knows all the things that could go wrong with the human body. _I tried to remember what I could from my anatomy class a zillion years ago and could only come up with a picture of the human skeleton and vague ideas where internal organs went. _If it's a brain tumor, I'm going to demand a fucking recount. Wait. It can't be a brain tumor; she didn't scan anywhere close to my head. _I dragged my mind back to what Dr. Lester was saying.

"—look here…" She moved her hand back to steady the keyboard, her other hand rolling the track ball to bring the screen out of sleep mode; she clicked on an icon, quickly navigating to the file she wanted. The screen filled with a large picture of… something. Black and white, it was shaped like an upside down fan and it looked as confusing as the sonogram pictures I'd seen before. I couldn't see a fetus in the other pictures; I couldn't see or _not_ see one in this picture. But there was another faint, infinitesimal indrawn breath from Ducky; _he_ clearly saw something. Something… not good. "…corpus luteum cyst…" Dr. Lester was saying.

I frowned. "Corpus delicti?" I was starting to feel like I wasn't there—no… like I was there, but shut off. Like I was in a goldfish bowl or something, like there was a glass wall between Dr. Lester and me, between Ducky and me, between me and… everything.

"No, no…" She clicked through other views, video feed and static images, things that made no impact on me. I didn't understand them. Cloud cover… It all looked like cloud cover or Swiss cheese…

Ducky was leaning forward, holding my hand. He was listening carefully to what Dr. Lester was saying; good. Glad someone was. Occasionally he asked a question. I didn't track on anything either of them was saying.

Not pregnant. How… odd.

It had taken me the better part of a week to get comfortable, really comfortable with the idea of being pregnant.

And now, with the click of a computer button… I'm not.

Never was.

I realized there was a sudden silence in the room; both Dr. Lester and Ducky were looking at me. I started to fumble for and excuse, but I didn't need to. Dr. Lester reached over and patted my knee. "I understand," she said gently. "It's a lot to take in. But everything indicates it will be easy to take care of. It's probably the cause of your come-and-go abdominal pain. Because of that, I do recommend removal, rather than wait and see…"

Only part of my mind listened to the plans. Outpatient surgery Monday morning, she'd give me a list of pre-op instructions; I should take the day off, just to be safe, but I'd be right as rain Tuesday. Right as rain.

Into each life, a little rain must fall… it never rains, but it pours…

The next thing I knew, Ducky and I were walking in the parking lot. Slowly. Hand-in-hand.

"Oh, I _knew_ I should have driven us…" I only vaguely heard Ducky's mutter. "Sandy… Cassandra… Your van will be fine here overnight, let me drive—" I shook my head. "Perhaps—"

"I'm fine. I'll be fine." I realized how flat my voice was and forced a miniscule smile. "I'm just—surprised. A little—off-balance. Mentally. You know, going from one extreme to…" I trailed off. "But I'll be fine. Really." I determinedly made my smile a little larger. "Fine."

"You did hear what Dr. Lester said? If we want… we could try again. Try the first time, really… but…"

I managed another smile. "We can talk about it. Later. After the surgery." _No way. Not going through this kind of upheaval again, never._

But then I caught his eyes; he… _wanted_ to try again.

Could I? Should I? Should we?

Let me think about it…?

"Of course." His eyes searched my face. "Will you—be coming home? To Reston?"

_Oh, god._ Now I was really glad we hadn't told anyone. Victoria would have been elated—and then brokenhearted. On the other hand, it would have been nice to have someone outside of the two of us to talk to, to get some commiseration from...

Commiserate? Now, that's just stupid. It's not like you were trying to get pregnant. Not even half-heartedly. This was a big oops, a big surprise, and a big oops on the other side.

But even if we hadn't been planning or trying and it wasn't as harsh a blow as it would have been in that situation—being apart wouldn't help either of us. So. Suck it up, pull on your big girl panties and give Mother such a show that she'll never suspect anything is wrong.

But I can't. Not today, not tonight. I need a day to sort things out, to process… to… something.

"Tomorrow?" I suggested. Ducky looked upset at that. No, not just upset—worried. "I just need a little time alone. Just a little. Get back into a normal rhythm of things." He still looked hesitant. "I, ah, want to pack of my clothes, get all of them over to your place tomorrow. Only a month to get my stuff cleared out…"

"I shall love coming home every night to find you there." He slipped his arms around me, gently pulling me toward him and resting my head on his chest. "You said something the other week, something about sailors of old coming to port and the feeling of _home_ they felt… I know what you mean, I see you when I walk in, it feels like all the jigsaw puzzles pieces have fallen into place…" His voice was a soft blur around me.

I still had the odd 'fishbowl' feeling. I had felt like this a week ago, when I discovered I was pregnant—when I _thought_ I had discovered I was pregnant. I knew he was holding me, I could hear and feel his heartbeat against my face… but it was like I was in a glass bubble, everything was slightly dulled, slightly distant, and there was a growing gap of time, a lag between his words and my responses.

Now was one such lag. I had no idea what he had said, but he had said something that required a response. I forced my mind to sift through the last minutes—something about having Mother go over the furniture lists, keep her occupied. "Fine."

Fine.

I was fine.

Everything would be fine, just fine…

/ / /

It took very little work to get my clothes together. Half of what I owned was already at Ducky's, slowly taking over the closet in the guest room. There were the already boxed winter clothes; into the van, done in ten minutes. Stuff that didn't need to transport neatly—underwear, t-shirts, jeans, pants, just jam them into plastic trash bags and toss in the van. Half hour. My nice outfits that would bend, fold, spindle or mutilate stayed on their hangars, went into hanging garment bags (the ones I stopped taking on planes years ago because they _never_ have room up front) and when I ran out of room, I made instant garment bags with big trash bags, tied them off and put the whole mess in the van. Two boxes of shoes, most of which I never wear; cull through them later and donate to charity. By dinner, I was done.

Boy, was I.

And through it all, I still felt like I was trapped in a bell jar, isolated from the rest of the world. Nobody gets in… nobody gets out.

As Evvie often puts it, my give-a-shit-o-meter was pegged at zero. Even microwaving a box would take too much effort; I called Al Dominic's for a pizza strike and checked through the closets one last time. I was loading the already bagged but forgotten in the library closet Ren Fair garb into the van when the delivery kid arrived. I didn't ask for the change; he was thrilled with the $4.50 tip and took off like a rocket. I grabbed the last of the wine (two totally different bottles, who cares), turned on the TV and ate about half of the double cheese meat lovers' (plus triple mushrooms) extra large pizza on autopilot while I ignored _Godzilla_ on the TV.

"—and…he's _pregnant_."

My head jerked up. Matthew Broderick was explaining to Maria Pitillo how pregnancy tests work, that Godzilla was reproducing asexually ("Where's the fun in that?")—

I clicked numbers and ended up on USA, a "Law and Order SVU" rerun. Stabler and Benson were bugging Dr. Warner for autopsy details. "Oh, no, she was alive when it happened. Unconscious, but alive. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. She would have had to be breathing or they would have had only a minute or two to remove the fetus before brain damage—"

Jesus Christ!

I punched in a music channel and was grateful to hear "Bennie and the Jets." (If it had been "Having My Baby" I would have gone right over the edge.) I grabbed my dinner remains and headed to the kitchen.

I didn't bother bagging the pizza; the box would keep it edible for breakfast, beyond that it would go in the trash. I put the bottles in the recycle bin and the wine glass on the counter—and sniffed. Something smelled sweet—and slightly bad.

Euu. The fruit bowl was the culprit. A couple of pears that had ripened way too fast; they were brown, mushy and attracting the attention of a half dozen gnats. Now the rest of the fruit in the bowl was suspect.

"Well, that was a perfectly good waste of money," I snapped to no one in particular. I dumped the spoiled fruit into the trash and turned to put the bowl in the sink. I was still operating in a fog; the bowl started to slip, I moved to catch it… but it was like looking at two movies running at the same time. My hands were in slow motion, the bowl in triple speed. It glanced off the edge of the counter, flipped in the air and shattered into a thousand pieces as it landed on the tile.

The audio and video of the scene collided. I screamed, jumped out of the way into the dining room, and was somehow safe on the hardwood floor before the bowl exploded—but it felt like it was seconds, even minutes after the impact.

I stared around me, head jerking from point to point. What time is it? What _day_ is it? What the hell is going on? Where am I, why—

Shaking, I focused on the explosion of pale green glass. "Dammit… dammit, dammit, _dammit_!" I pushed my fingers through my hair, clenching them against my scalp, tightening them more and more until it hurt. Until _finally_… it hurt.

I picked my way around the debris and pulled a broom and dustpan from the utility closet at the far end and slowly made my way back across the kitchen. My favorite bowl. It had been in my mother's kitchen since I could remember, given to her by Gamma; it had been in _Gamma's_ kitchen for years before that. Mom had given it to me when I bought the house. I, in turn, would have given it—

Lips pressed in a hard line, I swept viciously at the broken glass. Stupid move. For one thing, it made the shards spin around instead of gathering neatly into a pile. For another, a wild swing connected with my wine glass and…

"_Aaah!_" I screamed as the glass fell, adding thin bits of clear glass to the minefield and splashing almost half a glass of wine all over. I stared at the now larger mess for a few seconds in mounting fury and let loose with another scream, this one of pure rage. My howl ended in a shriek of, "God_dammit_!" that rattled the glassware. I grabbed anything within reach—the dish drainer contents: dinner plate, cereal bowl, big glass measuring cup, spoons, forks; canisters of rice, flour, sugar; collection of cooking utensils stuck in a kitschy ceramic milk jug with a Pennsylvania Dutch style rooster on it—anything, everything, each item being thrown to the floor with screams and curses, the mess growing and I didn't care, I didn't care, _I didn't care one damn bit_.

I was trying to pull the pads from the breakfast nook chairs—unsuccessfully, they were tied on too well—and my energy fled. My hands slid down the frame of the chair, propelling me to the floor—fortunately far away from the disaster at the other end of the kitchen. I sat on the floor, panting, almost but not quite crying, surveying the mess. Finally I just shook my head in sort of resignation. "Oh, yeah. That solves everything," I said bitterly. "Now I have to replace all this crap… _and_ clean the kitchen. Again." My head fell forward, forehead resting on the chair pad I'd been so desperate to disembowel.

This is not the life I planned…

/ / / / /

Interestingly enough, I found that when I woke up the next morning, I actually remembered a lot of what Dr. Lester had said. Very simple, really—after the follicle on the ovary did its' job and kicked out an egg, it sealed back into itself and filled with fluid. Like an ingrown hair, only more painful—and with the ability to fake out a pregnancy test.

I stared up at the ceiling in the semi-gloom of the pre-dawn hours.

_Oh, well._

_It beats an ectopic pregnancy._

I sighed resignedly… rolled over and went back to sleep for another hour. I was working on accepting what had been dished out—but I wasn't quite at that stage yet.

I didn't tell anyone at the store what had happened; why should I? They didn't know before, this would just make them sad for no good reason. I tried to pull myself together, put on a cheerful face… but the best I could manage was civil and indifferent. I was clearly putting out "leave me alone" vibes; any time I went near the counter, Valerie would smile politely and say she had it covered; didn't I want to work on the artwork for the mailer? Get a head start on Halloween? Check the east coast book sales for the next few months? I retreated to my office, distracted myself with photoshop and catalogues and websites and pulled a little further into myself with each click.

By late afternoon, I knew I had to tell her _something_. We needed to change the schedule. "Can you cover for Monday?"

She looked startled. "Sure."

"Finally saw the doctor about that muscle. It just needs a little tweak, just an outpatient thing, doing it Monday morning…"

Her face cleared. "Oh, Sandy! I'm so sorry! But they're going to be able to fix it, right?"

I forced a smile. "Yep. Just going to take the day off in case I have a reaction to the anesthesia. Don't need you having to do double duty as Cherry Ames."

"Well, you go lie down. Better yet, go home. Let Dr. Mallard fuss over you, I'm sure he's dying to." She scurried from behind the counter to give me a hug. "Take care of yourself. You're the best boss I've ever had. I don't want to break in a new one."

I hugged her back. "Thanks. Just for that, I won't send Victoria in as my substitute on Monday."

Valerie laughed. "That's okay, I'd just hand her over to Geoff and walk away…"

/ / /

Ducky had prepared Mother in advance, telling her the same tale I'd told Valerie (interesting that we both went the same direction without consulting each other). He tried to rein her in but there are times when Victoria Alexandria Mallard gets an idea in her head and hangs on for dear life. In this instance her almost-daughter-in-law, the beloved of her son, the woman who went out of her way to fix special treats and cook things exactly as she liked them, the playmate who would drop everything and run over to take her to the market or the movies needed her love and protection. And, by all the gods and goddesses and stars in the sky, she was going to coo and cosset and hover like a mother hen with one chick, even if the chick was driven nuts and was close to screaming, 'Leave me the fuck alone!'

I didn't, of course.

I never allowed myself to be pushed beyond a sigh and slightly irritated remark—always followed by a hug or kiss or comment to let her know I still loved her, rather like Chanda dealing with the time out punishment for the girls—

(Stop. Don't go there.)

On any given day I try not to get snippy or snarky with Victoria. But that evening I had to hold on to my thoughts and feelings with both hands, my mental fingers turning white with the effort, hold on and think, think, _think_, before I said a word, tear myself away from my self-centered pity party and tell myself, 'She loves you, she's trying to help you' before saying anything. Most of the time I said nothing, just hugged her back and said, "I love you, too."

Under the cover of keeping up the pretense I let Ducky haul the laundry down to the basement, but I went down to actually do the chore; it gave me something to focus on, something—something _else_—to think about. While I worked at being a domestic goddess, he went over to Foot's throne room and started to sift the sand. "I'll get that, you don't—"

"No, no, dear, you shouldn't—" He broke off and we stared at each other. _Don't have to worry about the health risk any more._ "I don't mind doing it, heaven knows you've cleaned up after the dogs innumerable times—" He turned back to the inset ledge and resumed his work.

He continued to prattle; I knew he was just talking to fill the silence, so I didn't work at finding a reply to anything. His voice became a gentle hum in the background, like the store's copier when it's powered up but not printing.

Life goes on. There are chores that need to be done, the store will open and close, Ducky will discover the reason some poor petty officer is no longer with us, Charlie will come back from camp even more a computer nerd than she already is, Martin and Michelle Romero, Mr. Everstead and, lest we forget her, Alyce Carson will each face their own trial and judgment. Life goes on. No matter how devastating something is to you, personally, the world does not stop spinning, dawn continues to break, night continues to fall. Even if you take yourself out of the loop, chew your way through the medicine chest with a fifth of vodka as a chaser, that won't stop life from continuing on in your absence. Life… goes on.

Ducky had brought my clothes up to the spare room; I killed time arranging things, but that still left me with several hours until bedtime. (Ducky had fixed one of my absolute favorites for dinner, grilled salmon in apricot sauce; it tasted like cardboard, everything did, but I ate it all, had seconds, smiled and chatted during dinner, drank two or three (or five or six) glasses of wine… don't ask me what I said.)

Mother wanted to sit with me, keep me company; I gently encouraged her to park her frail butt in front of the computer. I knew she missed Charlie, Charlie missed her—and I needed a breather. After I had assured her a dozen times that I was _fine_, the surgery next Monday would be _no_ _big_ _deal_, she finally took her place at the computer and started tapping away. I hid in Ducky's office area while he brought the laundry up from the basement.

There was nothing to do. All the books and magazines were organized; his desk was pristine. The little wastebasket had a few scraps in it; may as well empty it into the outside bin—that would get rid of two minutes. Five, if I took my time. I grabbed the bag of trash from the kitchen as I passed, giving myself a real feeling of accomplishment. I tossed the neatly tied bag into the outside container and upended the wastebasket. A few items fluttered out, but I could hear something rustling, caught on the wicker. I turned it back over and fished around, coming out with two tickets. The cancelled show, no doubt. _How to Succeed In Business (Without Really Trying),_ an old favorite. I glanced at the tickets—and hugged the wastebasket against my chest. _Snow White: A Tale of Terror (the Musical)_.

When we started dating the year before, the paper had run an article mentioning that the _very_ grim version of the Grimm tale would be presented as a musical the following year; Ducky and I agreed it was so bizarre a concept, we had to see it.

_During dinner, when I had indifferently asked about the Saturday plans, Ducky had paused a moment, carefully finishing his bite of salmon before saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry, dear. I completely forgot. The theatre called, they had to cancel the show. Ran into financial difficulties out of town, they're hoping to refinance and bring it back in a couple of months."_

"_What was it? You never said."_

Another pause. "**How to Succeed in Business**."

"Oh. Too bad. It's a good show."

He reached over and took my hand. "Let's make up for it. Go on an honest-to-goodness, traditional date. Take in a movie, go to the malt shop—"

_That actually made me smile. "They don't make malt shops any more."_

"_Well, there's an old fashioned ice cream parlor I know—"_

I stared at the tickets. I had seen the movie on TV; it had scared the bejeezus out of me. Sigourney Weaver was perfect as the stepmother who starts off just a hair touched already and faced with, frankly, a bratty stepdaughter—and then she goes not-so-quietly batshit crazy when she miscarries a son and is told she can never have another child. Perfect musical material.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath as the world sparkled, grayed out, then came back into focus. _Oh, Ducky…_ I looked up at the upstairs window, at the bedroom where he was putting away the laundry. The pauses. The slight hesitation in answering. The unease in meeting my eyes. _Ducky, my angel, my protector…_ _You lied. You didn't want me to be hurt. Oh, Ducky… I love you so very much..._

I tossed the tickets in the trash.

When Ducky came back downstairs, he found me engrossed in a biography of Madame Curie. Well… I looked engrossed, anyway. My eyes scanned the pages. I read every word, but not one stuck with me. Didn't matter; it was just something to occupy my time.

Time.

Time, time, time, plenty of that…

"Cassandra…?"

I looked up, not sure who had whispered my name. Not Ducky; he was dozing in his chair, open book on his chest, half-empty glass on the table next to him. I turned around. Victoria stood by her computer, waving for me to come over. I set the book aside and walked over quietly so as not to disturb Ducky. "Yes?"

She continued to wave "come here" as she walked across to what was formerly a sitting room, for the past few years her bedroom. I followed, sighing slightly. God; now what? She sat down on her daybed and patted for me to sit next to her.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Cassandra… oh, my dear…" She took my hand and looked at me imploringly.

I clenched my free hand. _She knows. Goddammit, she __**knows**__. Ducky swore he wouldn't, but he did._ She was looking at me with the saddest eyes. "It's okay, Mother."

"Forgive him, my dear."

I blinked. "Sorry. What?"

"Donald—Donald is a good son. I do get vexed sometimes—but he means well. Whatever he's done to upset you this time, I'm sure you're justified in being angry, but—well, he's a _man_, dear. You know how they can be. Just forgive him, even though I'm sure you're right."

Oh, my god. She thinks we had a fight—_another _fight—and she's trying to get us to make up. "Mother, it's not—" I broke off.

_What are you going to do? Tell her the truth? Oh, yeah, that's a good plan. _She cocked her head and looked at me quizzically, like one of the dogs.

I gave her a ghost of a smile. "You're right. It's a silly squabble. I promise we won't go to bed angry."

"Oh, lovely!" She clasped her hands. "I _do_ love Donald—but sometimes I fear he'll act like his father and screw things up with you." I almost snorted over 'screw things up' and turned it into a cough. "You're such a good girl. If Donald were to lose you—" I waited patiently though the long pause, waiting for a Hallmark moment. "It would be his own stupid fault."

Not quite what I was expecting, but heartwarming nonetheless. "He won't. You're both stuck with me."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" She put a shaky hand on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. "I love you very much, Cassandra."

I blinked; my eyes were suddenly painfully dry. "I love you too, Mother. Very, _very_ much." I gave her a hug and a kiss, and blinked again, clearing my eyes.

/ / /

_This is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There's no reason for you to be having this little pity party,_ I scolded myself. _Were we planning on having kids? No. Did we even discuss having kids? No. Well, yes—and the consensus was that neither of us really wanted them. It's not like this is going to kill you, even—hell, the surgery isn't going to be that bad, you were down for two weeks with that appendix back in high school, this is an outpatient procedure, jeez-louise._

Hormones. It's just those stupid, freaking hormones. Get the nip-and-tuck done and things will be back to normal.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Normal. Yeah. Right.

Ducky was very cautious as he came into the bedroom, undressing almost noiselessly. "I'm awake," I said quietly.

There was a pause. "Oh." Another pause. "When did you come up?"

"Nine or so." Right after my mother/daughter moment with Victoria.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You looked so peaceful. I hated to disturb you." I sat up as he slipped into bed. "Mother asleep?"

He smiled. "Yes, with the menagerie in residence. Amusing to see Foot on the bed surrounded by the dogs." He slipped his hand behind my head, drawing me close for a kiss. Not a quick peck, not a prelude to a romantic interlude, just a deep, meaningful kiss, tinged with Scotch and chocolate and a close, firm hug—

_Damn_.

After a couple of months of being the village watering pot, I'd spent the past 24 hours dry-eyed. I expected to cry—but no. A temper tantrum worthy of a _Supernanny_ episode. That was it. No tears.

And, frankly, there was no reason to cry. Nan? Now, _she_ had a reason to cry. Lose a much-wanted pregnancy at four months, have everyone asking, "When are you due? How's the baby?" at every turn—god, the woman must have soaked her pillow every night for months.

But now, all of a sudden… I pulled back, gave him a quick kiss and scooched over to lie on my side, squeezing my eyes shut against the unexpected flood in my eyes. "'night, sweetie," I chirped, hoping he'd leave me alone.

Alone. Yeah. Right.

Ducky moved slowly, carefully, probably testing the waters to see if I'd push away, but finally he was where he was every night, snuggled up against my back, arm draped over my body.

I remembered a night like this in Silver Spring, where he'd held me, caressed my stomach, talking delightedly about the coming baby—

I reached up and quickly scrubbed at my damp eyes, tucking my hair behind my ear in the process, making it look like that was my task. "Oh… oh, Sandy…" Ducky nestled a little closer.

Can't fool Ducky on anything. I couldn't stop the tears. They fell lopsidedly, pouring over the bridge of my nose to splash on the pillow, dribbling from another corner to pool in my ear. "Dammit!" I raged, rubbing at the irritating drops in my ear. "This is _stupid!_ We never planned on having children, there is _no reason_ for me to be upset! The surgery isn't even a big deal!"

Ducky kissed the back of my neck. That just made me cry even more.

"It's these hormones, these damned, damned hormones—" I curled into a ball, wiping my face on the back of my hand, against my shoulder, pulling away from Ducky as I did.

He wasn't having any of that. He draw my miserable lump back toward him. "Oh, Sandy.." he whispered into my hair. "I understand… I'm disappointed, too…"

Disappointed? I wasn't disappointed. Why would I be disappointed? We hadn't wanted children… right? I was _pissed_. I hate having things out of my control, and this was totally out of my control. I hadn't _chosen_ to be pregnant, but I'd regained control when we thought I was. I hadn't chosen to _not_ be pregnant, but I'd regained control when we discovered I wasn't.

Bullshit.

I'd never been in control. Not then. Not now. Probably not ever.

And through it all there was this tiny voice in the back of my head. A baby? No. Never wanted a baby. But… with Ducky? Ducky... _His eyes. My hair. _A baby with Ducky. _His gorgeous, patrician nose. My long, graceful fingers. _Rearing a child with Ducky. _Our graces and talents, quirks and oddments, creating a whole new, unique person…_ Well… maybe…

But we never planned on this—_any_ of this—happening…

"This is just stupid!" I tried to force my tears to a stop. Instead, I could hear the sob in my voice and it made me even angrier. "I hate this! I hate not being in control of how I feel! It makes no sense, I can't—I don't—I don't know why I'm still crying! _I don't understand__!_"

Ducky pulled up so that he could lean over me. He kissed my temple and laid his cheek against mine. "Oh, darling…" I could feel his tears mingle with my own and could barely hear him whisper:

"_I_ do."

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><p>8<p>

* * *

><p><em>Is est terminus. Illic est haud magis.<br>__Vado. Constructum vestri infucatus pluvia.  
><em>_This is the end. There is no more.  
><em>_Go. Build your colored rain._

_(There is no Latin phrase meaning "rainbow." You learn something new every day.)_


End file.
